


The Princess Diaries (And Me)

by SuedeScripture



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF, The Prince and Me, The Princess Diaries - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Borrowed lines because they're fantastic lines, Cars, Castles, Ceremonies, Cinderella Makeover, Clubbing, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Denmark - Freeform, Discoveries, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family Secrets, Formal Balls/Dances, Genovia, Google Translate is probably wrong, Illnesses, Kierkegaard quotes, Lies of Omission, M/M, Media Shitstorm, Meeting the Parents, Minor Character Death, Paparazzi, Thanksgiving, Wakes & Funerals, family holidays, happy endings, modern fairytale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-05-22 08:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 107,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6071968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuedeScripture/pseuds/SuedeScripture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris is a Berkeley Literature Major with an obsession for all things fairytale. Zach is a walking scandal of European high society, until he unwillingly becomes heir to a throne. While one has big ambitions for the future, the other runs from his responsibilities, and an unlikely alliance develops.</p><p>When certain truths are revealed to both of them, can two unlikely princes cope with their new reality? Is there a forbidden fruit, an evil queen, a benevolent king, a kindly grandmother, a little mermaid, and a knight in shining armor? Does true love really win in the end?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: When Will My Life Begin?

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will combine Pinto RPF with characters and plot elements of the film universes of _The Princess Diaries 1 &2_, as well as _The Prince & Me_. You don’t need to have seen any of them to read, but it wouldn’t hurt for some character references (the latter, especially, is underrated amongst trashy princess rom-coms and I fucking love it, so if you enjoy this story please give the source material a shot).
> 
> As for the minor character deaths that are warned, there are only two. The first will be immediate for obvious reasons, and the second will be pretty heavily foreshadowed. And as for missing characters from any of the three universes, let’s just pretend they don’t exist. It’s complicated already, and I really didn’t want to kill off more people than strictly necessary. There might be some surprise appearances, you never know.

_In faraway lands and far away from each other, we meet our intrepid Prince and Princess._

 

Chris packed up the last of his boxes, largely personals from the bathroom, the remainder of his clothes, notebooks and other necessities from the desk that he used regularly enough that he’d want them before he came back. Early tomorrow morning, he’d be on the train down to his parents’ for one last summer back home in LA.

Cho rapped his knuckles on the open door, leaning against the frame with his car keys in hand. “You all set?”

“Yeah, man, just about,” he nodded, pulling open the nightstand drawer. Hastily tossing the wadded up tissues inside, hopefully leftover from his last cold, he gathered up a group of beat-up paperbacks, including a forgotten, now overdue library book, a comp book and his journal from the drawer and piled them on the bed.

“You could still stay,” Cho poked at the door latch, feigning nonchalance.

“Aww, I’ll miss you too, Pookie,” Chris teased. Cho was a sap, but it did suck to leave. They’d been best friends since the fifth grade, the Dynamic Nerd Duo, breaking hearts together for years (well, Cho had, Chris cheered him on). But Cho had a decent job and a girl here now, so it made sense for him to sublet Chris’ room in their tiny off-campus duplex for a few months. They’d shared it since they made their great escape from the dorms, and it would be a pity to lose it when they had to be back for one more year.

Chris didn’t have to go home for the summer, but seeing as it would be the last one, it was too good an offer to pass up. He wanted his mom’s home cooking every night, one more summer of tinkering on the ’68 with his dad, and if he was honest, he wanted to be the family baby and shirk adulthood while his parents still let him get away with it. Plus, it would really help him out financially to save what he earned working rather than lose it all to rent. In a few months, he’d have no time for slacking off.

“Welp,” Chris slapped his denim thighs, getting his feet, “I gotta leave at the asscrack of dawn, so I’m gonna hit the sack.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go over to Kerri’s,” Cho lumbered over to give him a tight hug, slapping him hard on the back. “So, see you in a few months. Unless your white knight sweeps you off before then.”

“Fuck off,” he pushed him away by the shoulders. “I’m always white knight in the story.”

“Yeah, well, you’re white, for sure. Maybe pull your nose out of your books and go outside once in awhile, dude, get some actual California sunshine,” Cho grinned with a wink, “Text me when you get in.”

“Yeah. Hey,” he sifted through pile on the bed, finding the library book and holding it out, “Will you return this for me on your way?”

Cho took it with a smirk, thumbing through the book’s surprisingly gory pictures of witches and ogres, “I’m not paying the fine.”

“It’s on my card, genius,” he retorted. “They’ll hit me in the wallet next semester, I’m sure.”

Cho waved with the book and left, calling through the house, “Nighty-night, Prince Charming!”

He heard Cho slam the front door before he could respond. He sifted through his pile again, seeing the leather-bound journal. Shuffling through the box to find a pen, settled back on the bed to open it to a fresh page.

_May 30._

_Dear Diary,_

_It’s on like Donkey Kong, baby. I am officially a Senior at Berkeley._

_One more year. Two more semesters. If I keep on a tight schedule, I might even graduate early. Hopefully I can submit for my diss and get it done within a year after that, or even less. Greenwood is still iffy, but really, how many people have really dissected the oral traditions laid down by Grimm? Aesop? Andersen? Okay, Tolkien did, whatever, that was 80 years ago. Someone has to do it as a response to modern day storytelling, film, TV. Disney and the dumbing down for today’s brats, sterilizing them until all of the fear is gone and little kids grow up believing their perfect prince will come if they only wait in a magical castle, that love comes with a single kiss, and what that’s done to our society. I’ll write it, defend it, submit it to literary journals, and then!_

_God, I want to travel. England, Germany, Scandinavia, Turkey, Russia, see where all the great old folktales came from, and preferably get paid for it, give talks at all the major universities all over the world. I can’t wait. I wish I could just make it happen faster. Dad says I should put it off and travel first, journal along the way. Maybe I should. I’ve got two jobs lined up over the summer, so hopefully I’ll be able to put some decent money away. But I have to finish first. I have to finish._

_So no fucking around anymore. Once school starts, no parties, no distractions, no girls or guys. I can’t afford it, financially or mentally. I have to finish, so I can get started on the rest of my life. And that’s no fairytale at all._

Shutting the diary, Chris locked it—old habit, Cho snooped—tossed it on the pile and stuffed it all into the box, putting the top on and tying it shut to ride next to him on the train down to LA. He shucked his clothes, turned out the light, scooting down under his sheets in his briefs and crossing his arms beneath his head with a sigh. If he stayed disciplined, then in a couple of years, maybe, just maybe, he’d be boarding a plane, on his way to seeing real castles, harbors with tall ships and mermaids, old forests with witch’s cottages, orchards of magical fruit, princes and princesses… 

He giggled to himself. Okay, so maybe not. But it was as close as he might ever get.

 

+

 

Zach came sluggishly into the mouth of the guy blowing him whose name he couldn’t recall. Some unrelentingly British C-name: Connor, or maybe Callum. The guy leaned over to spit into the toilet, smiling up at him apologetically, “No offense, Majesty.”

He reached down to shove the guy aside and tuck himself back into his jeans, buttoning up. “Don’t call me that,” he pushed past him out of the stall and to the sink to splash his face and wash his hands. A delicate knock sounded at the door before it pushed open a few inches. “Sorry, sir?”

“It’s a pub toilet, Anton, for fuck’s sake. Only you would knock.”

Slipping inside, Anton’s eyes darted briefly to the guy now swiping at the damp knees of his jeans with a wad of toilet paper in front of the stall, then fixed his gaze on the innocuous paper towel dispenser, clearing his throat. “We’ve been made, sir. There are about twenty photographers outside.”

Zach frowned. Typically, there were only two or three. He hadn’t done anything warranting more than five in a few months, not since the incident with that cage dancer in Amsterdam. London’s paparazzi were somewhat more relentless, however, they didn’t always need a reason.

“Is it me?” Caleb asked, wrapping his arms around Zach’s shoulders and necking at him, “Will we make the _Daily Record_ or _The Sun_ , d’you think?”

Anton rolled his eyes, pulling the door back open to leave. 

Zach turned around and kissed him, searching his own taste over the bite of thick dark beer and cigarettes. “Ideally, we don’t get papped at all.”

Corey pouted, “That’s no fun.”

Zach dragged him back out to the bar, thirsty for another drink. With the World Cup qualifier ran on the TV mounted above the bar, it was packed, and a rush of indignant noise erupted from the pub patrons at an interruption of a breaking newscast. It took some time for the uproar to die down enough to hear the report.

“ _… press conference just concluded with the Danish Prime Minister informing the European public that the Crown Prince of Denmark, His Royal Highness Prince Edvard Valdemar of Glücksborg, has died. He was thrown from his horse during today’s Copenhagen Polo Open, and while he was rushed immediately to University Hospital, he was declared dead of his injuries upon arrival._ ”

Zach shoved Colin off, his heart in his throat, pounding in his ears above at the sudden quiet of the pub surrounding him as the news report continued.

“ _…still awaiting official word from the Danish Royal Family, however, as it stands in the current line of succession, the station and duties of the Crown Prince and eventual King of Denmark will now fall to His Royal Highness, Prince Zachary John Quinto de Monpezat, Edvard’s second cousin, son of—_ ”

As the report detailed his blood relation, a photograph of Zach replaced the Danish Royal Seal on the television; not one from a tabloid, thankfully, but during an official event a couple of years ago. He dragged both hands over his mouth, a cold shiver going down his spine to hear himself newly styled. _His Royal Highness_.

“ _This is a heartbreaking day for all of Europe. We’ll now return, of course, to the World Cup qualifying match; once again, the Crown Prince of Denmark, Edvard Valdemar of Glücksborg is dead, aged twenty-four._ ”

The screen abruptly returned to the football match, eerie quiet submersing the pub in its wake. Then came the whispers, the stares, the clicks and flashes of cellphones pointed at him, and Anton excusing himself urgently through the crowd before his curly head emerged. “Sir,” was all he said, offering a mobile in his hand. Swallowing, Zach nodded, taking the phone and following him to the exit. His voice shook as he answered it, “Yes?”

“A car is being sent to collect you,” the frosty voice of Queen Rosalind informed him. “You are to return immediately to Copenhagen to assume your new position.”

“So nice to hear from you too, Auntie Razz, it’s been too long,” he bit off, halting in the relative privacy of the pub entrance, his voice a little ragged. “I was under the impression you would have had the Acts of Succession altered by now.”

“It isn’t entirely out of the question. The King isn’t dead yet,” she retorted, and there it was, a pained, weeping crack in her typically icy tone. “But… my son is. Edvard is gone.”

Zach held his breath behind trembling lips, remembering back when they were schoolboys, stealing away on the grounds of their boarding school at night to swim naked in the lake or play chicken with the guards, always causing trouble. Eddie always had a penchant for a good time too, with his fast cars, dangerous sports and beautiful women.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, quietly and sincerely into the phone. It was answered with a click and a dial tone. He handed the phone back to Anton, his eyes wide, shocked and sad. Zach merely nodded, taking a deep breath against the lump in his throat and they pushed out into a waiting crowd of paparazzi, shouting and snapping at him as they worked their way through to the car.


	2. Someday My Prince Will Come

_Three months later..._

 

“Do not walk away when I am speaking to you, young man.”

Zach continued his furious stride down the hall, shoes echoing on the marble, “I’m neither your son nor your wife, so I don’t think I will.”

“Zachary, please,” King Haraald sighed in exasperation, “Surely you understand, your participation in these meetings is meant to prepare you—”

“Yes, to be King, I’m not deaf,” Zach spat, turning back and getting right up in his uncle’s face, ignoring the scandalized looks of advisors and assistants failing to make themselves scarce. “You have me sit in on these meetings with union leaders and ambassadors and allied officials, where you ask for my opinion and then shoot me down as soon as I give it—how is any of this readying me for the job when all you do is make me look like a fucking fool?” He gave an obsequious smile, “If, Your Majesty, you undermine everything I say in front of people who are at some point supposed to take me seriously, how will those people approach me when I’m at the head of the table? Truly exceptional preparation, Uncle, they already know they can’t be bothered to respect anything I have to say.”

His uncle’s face was stern. “The station of the King demands their respect. And yours.”

“Does it?” Zach asked, “I’ve already heard what the esteemed Mr. Kaerskaard thinks of me, he made it perfectly clear on last night’s news. He questioned your competence in the process, if you recall, inferred that the medications had you confused.”

The King deflated. “Zachary, you are clearly a very intelligent young man—” he began again.

“Obviously not intelligent enough for you to have some fucking confidence in my ideas,” Zach cut across viciously. “Maybe it would suit you best if I pursued more education than I’ve already had. Which was exactly as much as your son, by the way. Did you find him as lacking as you find me? Clearly, I require much more preparation before I can be as irrefutable a king as you.”

With that, he spun and stalked off, out of the King’s palace and across the courtyard to his own residence.

Digging at the knot of his tie, he tossed it and his jacket aside before he even reached his private apartments, housemaids scurrying out of his way. “Fucking unbelievable,” he muttered, kicking off his shoes at the doorway, “This is the third time, Anton, I don’t even know why he expects me to show up and play his holier-than-thou game.”

“Yes, sir,” Anton agreed blandly, collecting the detritus in Zach’s wake. “Possibly—and this is just a guess—because you’ll take his place.”

“He’s still perfectly able. They’ve only just announced his illness to the public,” Zach continued, “He could live for another five years and they’re acting like he’s at death’s door.”

“The doctors said that the prognosis has become more unpredictable,” Anton reminded him, returning from the wardrobe room. “This new type of cancer is notoriously hard to treat.”

Zach sighed heavily, sprawling on his sofa and flipping on the television, “If Eddie was still alive, he’d have just stepped down and be done with it. That was the plan.”

“Yes,” Anton offered, “But it makes sense now to ease the public into the idea of your ascension.”

“Of course it does, they’re all terrified of my hostile takeover. I’m sure one of the trash rags has already run a story that I must have sabotaged Eddie’s polo game for my own nefarious agenda,” Zach grumbled, feeling itchy and trapped. “I can’t be here anymore, Anton. I have to get away.”

“We’ve only been back for three months,” Anton reminded him.

“Three months too fucking long,” he grunted, absently flipping channels. “Where haven’t we been that isn’t Denmark?”

“Russia,” Anton muttered noncommittally, probably not meaning to be heard.

“Right, Putin would just love to have me traipsing around, gaying it up for the Moscow press,” Zach laughed scathingly, calling over his shoulder, “Didn’t your parents leave?”

“Yes, sir,” Anton said, removing crackers from their package to arrange on a plate of smoked meats and cheeses a maid had brought from the kitchens. “They requested political asylum when I was six months old. They live in California now.”

“Ah, that’s right. California, huh?” Zach considered. “How the hell did you end up here?”

Anton huffed, “A question I ask myself every day, sir. I went into hospitality thinking Monte Carlo, and yet, somehow—”

Zach wasn’t paying attention. “Aren’t there good universities out there?”

“Some of the best, sir,” Anton answered, bringing the tray to the side table.

Zach stared at the TV, taking a handful of pretzels, “Hmm. Bring me my laptop.”

 

“Berkeley?” Queen Rosalind exclaimed at brunch the following morning. “No. Completely unnecessary. You’ve spent four years at the finest universities already. Now you’re needed here.”

“Obviously, I’m not,” Zach said, sitting back in his chair and glaring at his uncle. “Your husband made it quite clear I’m in dire need of more education, so I’m taking his advice.”

“No one is questioning your intelligence,” Haraald exhaled, lifting a hand to refuse an offer of more coffee by the servant at his elbow. “You would never have been in succession if there was any question of your ability to lead this country.”

“The current cast of characters not withstanding,” Zach scoffed, “What on earth would you have done if all you had was cousin Nestor, the forty-year-old infant? It’s really such a travesty you couldn’t manage a spare.” He leveled a withering look at his aunt, whose infertility issues after Eddie’s birth had been almost as hot a topic in the tabloids as his own exploits. Her pale skin flushed with outrage, taking a deep breath to retaliate.

The King derailed the confrontation with a gnarled hand slicing between them over the breakfast table. “Stating one’s idea in council—even a very good idea, Zachary—and executing it is not quite the same thing. You must learn—”

“Yes, Uncle, I must _learn_ ,” Zach interrupted, standing up with a scrape of his chair. “I require more schooling to ready myself for the position you expect of me, so until you have any use for me at all, I’m going. I wasn’t asking permission, I was informing you of my intent. I’ll make my own arrangements, I don’t need your help.”

He grabbed a pastry from the bread tray and turned, intent on a dramatic exit when he was halted by a grunt of pain that drew the attention of everyone in the room. He frowned as the King clutched at his stomach, but quickly waved away their concern. “It’s nothing—heartburn. I’m all right,” he told them, but pushed the remainder of his breakfast away. Biting his lip, Zach turned and left the room.

 

+

 

“Fresh off the presses,” Prof Greenwood swept the sheet of paper out of his printer, handing it off to an eager Chris over the desk.

But he let out a petulant squawk as soon as he saw the first thing on it, his advisor just giving him that unperturbed dad look he was so good at. “Deal with it, kid. That’s what happens when you put it off this long.”

“Applied Physics at seven in the morning? Twice a week?” Chris whined, squinting at the paper again and realizing it was even worse than that, “And it’s three hours long?”

“One hour lecture, two hour lab,” Bruce pointed out, “You need the hours to fill your science requirement, since you've spent the last three years ignoring its existence.”

“Argh, can’t I take something else?” Chris asked, “Something that doesn’t require cognitive thought before the freaking sun is up? Bruce, come on!”

“Would you like to take Molecular Chemistry instead?” his advisor quipped, “Later in the day, five times the advanced mathematics. And no, since your BFF John had the foresight to get his sciences out of the way, he can’t be there to hold your hand. It’s either that or Introductory Anatomy. I hear they dissect cats in that one.”

Chris grimaced. There didn’t seem to be a way around taking this stupid science class. He was a Lit Major for fuck’s sake, why did he even need more science and math than high school had provided? All he wanted in his life was his words.

“It’s not all bad, come on,” Bruce said, “Look, you finally got into Ivanova’s Dostoyevsky course.”

“Yeah, but,” Chris continued to complain, “I still have to bump up my languages too, and I don’t know if two more semesters is going to be enough.”

“Your French isn’t bad.”

“Yeah, but my Italian sucks, and I haven’t been taking it since the sixth grade.”

“They are both Latin-based, that helps.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Yeah but, yeah but, yeah but. Chris, you’ve got plenty of time, and you can always use other resources for languages. It’s cheaper,” Bruce told him. “You don’t have to prove your proficiency until you’re defending, and that’s a long ways off.”

“But my plan is to have it done in at least a year, though, I need to get it all done so that I can—” Chris persisted, catching the exasperated smile from his advisor, “What?”

Bruce was shaking his head, “Nothing, you just remind me of someone I used to know.”

“Yeah? Who’s that?”

“Me,” he leaned his elbows on the desk between them. “Listen, Chris, I get it. I know you think you absolutely need to finish this section of your life right away so you can move along to the next chapter. Hell, I wish half of my students had your drive, had their goals all lined up like you do. But no one writes and defends a dissertation in a year. There will be research fellowships and more classes you never thought you’d want to take, more shit jobs to pay your bills, and more waitlists, more old farts telling you to slow it down. You can slow it down a little. Just a little. Look around, smell the roses, hell, paint a few white ones red. Your life will still happen while you work towards what you want. Mine did.”

“Yeah, but you got married, had a kid,” Chris scoffed. People had been telling him this for ages, that it wouldn’t all happen the way he had it planned out, but as far as he was concerned, it was all about not getting off track.

“Do I look like I regret any of it to you?” he glanced at the framed photograph of his family on the desk, from a fly-fishing trip to the Canadian Rockies he’d once told Chris all about. “Look, I know you’re passionate about becoming a professor, traveling everywhere to give your academic speeches and the like. But what will you do off the clock?”

“What do you mean?” Chris frowned.

Bruce sighed, mopping his face with a hand before propping his chin in his palm. “Don’t make your work the only thing that makes you happy. Take it from me, I’ve known more than a few professors who were so buried in their work, that when they suddenly reached the end of their life’s opus and found they hadn’t up and died upon its completion, they’re lost. And there is nothing more depressing than a tenured professor who has nothing left to live for and nothing more to offer. Look at Professor Penne.”

Prof Penne was infamous around campus for being literally the most boring professor alive. His classes had a 80% drop rate—Chris among them; he’d never been that enthusiastic about Shakespeare, but this guy even made people who loved the Bard comatose. The rare few who stuck it out to the end instead of just switching to an online course had nightmares about Hamlet and clocks that ticked like bombs but never moved. Chris smirked, but then it faded with a headshake, “I’m not going to end up like that.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Bruce queried. “Is there something more than fairytales in your life that I don’t know about?”

“Yeah. Cars.”

Bruce smiled, “How’s the Camaro?”

“Got her running over the summer!” Chris lit up, “Still a few rattles and pings here and there, but…” His smile tapered back off at what Bruce was implying.

“Chris,” he sat back, “How about we look at this in a way you understand. Consider _The Ill-Fated Princess_.”

“Come on, man,” Chris grumbled, “I’m not the ill-fated princess.”

“No, you’re not,” Bruce smiled, “I’m suggesting you are you’re own evil Fate, and you might be sabotaging yourself.” He took a deep breath, looked out the window and back, “Didn’t you consider taking a year off? Traveling? Getting inspired?”

“Yeah,” Chris sighed, rubbing his eyes and staring aimlessly at the paperclip cup. “I mean, Mom and Dad keep suggesting it. I saved up a bit over the summer, I could backpack it and stay in hostels cheap, but…”

“But?”

“I just…” He tapered off, knowing this was just going in circles like it always did. He was sure that everything had to be done in a certain order.

“Well. Keep thinking about it. Sometimes, things you never knew you wanted will just drop into your lap. I know you don’t want to hear it again, even from someone paid to advise you, but you’ve got plenty of time,” Bruce reiterated. “If you’re so focused on getting to grandmother’s house, you might miss your true path.”

Chris snorted, “That’s not how that one goes.”

“What do you want, a pat on the head? Get the hell out of here,” Bruce shooed him out, “There are multiple paths, Chris. The grad program will still be here when you get back. Hell, I’ll still be here. After all, I’ve got nothing better to do.”

He jogged out of the building and headed back towards home, still glowering at the schedule in his hand. He was excited about the Russian Lit course—the prof was legendary for her vivisection of Dostoyevsky’s _The Brothers Karamazov_ and he’d been on the wait list for it since sophomore year. But a three hour science lab that early in the morning? There wouldn’t even be enough time to get coffee, not with the lines at every shop anywhere near campus. He’d be working the bar until close both nights before, and a few afternoons in the deli too.

Every other spare minute would be for homework and studying. No excuses, no distractions, he remembered as he jogged across the street towards his old dorm building, where a new batch of students were in various stages of moving in. He narrowly dodged a hired Mercedes pulling up at the curb.

A curly haired kid leapt out and rushed around to open the rear passenger’s side, where a lean, tall, dark haired guy stepped out. He looked like he’d bought out Prada’s entire casual prep line, down to the cashmere sweater draped over his shoulders.

“Excuse me,” he hooked his fingers on Chris’ arm to jerk him to a stop as he past, pushing up designer aviators to peer up at the building, “Is this Putnam Hall?”

“Yeah. Like it says over the front door,” Chris indicated the obvious signage, right under the ‘Welcome Freshman’ banner. He took the guy in, from his perfectly preened eyebrows and coiffed hair to his Italian loafers, then indicated down the street with his chin. “Maximino Martinez and Channing-Bowditch are east, one more block down, maybe your driver misheard.” Those buildings housed the far nicer, newer student housing that had full apartments with their own bathrooms and kitchens, where the filthy rich kids usually stayed. Putnam was a dump by comparison.

“No, I believe this is right, thank you. Anton,” the guy snapped his fingers to the kid pulling multiple suitcases from the trunk with the driver, and strode on towards the doors.

“Coming, sir,” called the laden kid, hauling the luggage after him.

Chris snorted in disbelief, watching chino-clad hips sway for a second before heading off. “Guess somebody’s trust fund only stretched so far,” he muttered to himself.

 

“Ah, here we are,” Zach noted the door number, wrestling with the key and pushing through to the dorm room.

It was minuscule, with a set of bunk beds against one wall, two desks pushed together on the other, and a window in between. The short carpeting was an indescribable mottled green-brown color with untold years of stains. There was a pervasive musty, stale beer smell, as well as a fresher scent of plaster, smeared in random patches on the walls and unpainted.

Anton coughed, setting down the luggage. “Nice, sir.” 

“Hmm,” Zach wrinkled his nose as he pulled open the closet only to have the accordion door fall off its track. When he’d selected the cheaper of dorm options, it had largely been nostalgia of rooming with Eddie in their schooldays. Those were cramped quarters and communal bathrooms as well, although the 200-year-old French estate that housed their boarding school had been considerably better kept.

“I have an idea,” he said, swinging up onto the top bunk, testing out the thin mattress. It was terrible, and he smiled, “Since we’re roughing it out here, let’s take it all the way.”

Anton’s eyes flitted around the floor like he was expecting bugs, finding a rack in the busted closet and quickly moving the suitcases on top of it. “Meaning what, sir?”

Zach sighed up at the water-stained ceiling, his voice wistful, “I don’t want to be a prince anymore.”

“Pardon, sir?”

“I mean it,” he said, pushing his fingers up through his bangs, suddenly exhausted with jetlag, “I’m not His Royal Highness, Crown Prince of Denmark. Don’t use my titles. I don’t want people knowing who I am. I’m just Zach, college student, and you are my roommate. Okay?”

“Sir—”

“No, Anton.”

Anton huffed with frustration. “All due respect, sir, then what am I doing here? Keeping a university schedule isn’t that hard for you to manage yourself.”

“And yet, here you are to manage it for me.”

Anton mopped a hand through his curls, “I took a binding Oath of Allegiance to serve your House. I have orders direct from the King himself, not to mention from your mother—”

“Yes, I know, to be my babysitter,” Zach replied, “Find something. You might as well blend in. Anyway, you’ll still be doing my laundry and my bookkeeping and handling any official business, won’t you?” He rolled to smile down at him from the bunk, “Loosen up, pull the stick from your ass. Have some fun. Pull from our funds and take a Continuing Ed course or something.”

Sitting in one of the peeling green desk chairs, Anton sighed, “That may be difficult, sir, considering you voluntarily gave up your funds when we left.”

“I did?” Zach frowned.

“I believe your words were ‘I’ll make my own arrangements’. The Queen took you quite seriously. Your access to the royal accounts has been suspended pending your return.”

“Jesus, it takes so little to pucker her ass,” he sighed, remembering how he’d antagonized her, and shrugged, “So use my own trust, then.”

“Your mother donated your trust in its entirety to charities when you became Heir Presumptive, sir, a decision you signed off on. Officially, we have the five thousand kroner we changed out at the airport. Which is about seven hundred fifty US dollars, and some change.”

He rolled to squint down at him again. “Don’t you get paid?”

Anton glared up at him with all the anger of a kicked puppy.

“Really? Huh,” Zach considered, bunching the flat pillow beneath his head. “Come on, we aren’t lords and serfs anymore, are we?”

Anton heaved a sigh. “I am a court valet, sir. For my service, I get room and board in a palace where living quarters are considerably less disgusting than this, I eat food fit for a king, I’m allotted a _small_ stipend of personal spending money for personal necessities,” he emphasized. “All my needs are met. I even get six weeks of leave a year.”

“You’ve been with me for three years,” Zach remembered, “I don’t think you’ve ever taken a vacation.”

“Yeah, well,” Anton laughed sardonically, “I don’t think you could find your way to a bus stop without me, much less weasel your way out of a Berlin jail.”

“That was one time,” Zach grunted, rolling over to face the wall and closing his heavy eyes, “Sleeping now, Anton.”

“Yes, sir,” he muttered, taking the second room key. “I’ll just go see how terrifying the bathrooms are.”

 

+

 

Now that the students had rolled back in town, Berkeley Bites was once again the place to be. Chris had worked there during school since freshman year, and his boss Jerry was more than happy to have him jump back on the rotation one more time. Even after the kitchen shut down, the bar continued to pull brew after brew for the returning undergrads and wide-eyed freshmen.

Students were a fucking cheap bunch.

For all their willingness to pay four bucks a pint for two dollar tap beer, they made up the difference stiffing tips on a routine basis. Chris was clearing tables eight glasses deep and tallying maybe a few quarters for it. He just had to remind himself it usually got better a few weeks in, once the kids were settled and some were working themselves, or mommy and daddy took pity and sent cash.

 _Speak of the devil_ , he thought, as Eyebrows and his little manservant sat down at a recently vacated but uncleared table. Chris avoided it as long as he could, but he eventually had to make his way over.

“Well hello,” Eyebrows smiled, looking him up and down lasciviously, “Can we see a menu?”

“Kitchen closed at nine,” Chris said, nudging the empties onto his full tray and giving the table a paltry swipe before tossing the rag back over his shoulder.

“Oh. Then we’ll have a couple of beers, please,” the guy continued to grin, like it had always gotten him whatever the hell he wanted in the past.

“I’m not a waiter,” Chris returned with a fake smile of his own. “And you can wait in line at the bar with everyone else.”

He headed back, depositing the empties with the harried new dishwasher and went back up to help his other barman cut through the three-deep line. It didn’t take too long before the curly-haired kid made his way through and politely requested two of the cheapest tap.

“ID?” Chris raised his eyebrows. This guy didn’t look a day over eighteen. The passport he produced claimed he was twenty-two, as well as a second for Eyebrows, who was twenty-four and supposedly Danish, though Chris hadn’t noticed a discernible accent on either one of them.

“Is there anything to eat at all? Like, just chips or something?” the kid asked, somewhat hopefully. Apparently little orphan Oliver did not get his ration of porridge. Chris took pity and reached under the bar for the bowls of beer nuts. The kid looked thrilled, but then took in the bowl and two glasses and seemed to realize his error, trying a sheepish smile. “I don’t suppose I could use one of those?” He nodded to the trays piled behind Chris.

Rolling his eyes, Chris grabbed one, watching the kid place the glasses and nuts, sift some bills from his pocket to pay and then expertly take it all back to the table on the pads of his fingers through the crowd, serving Eyebrows like he was offering a fine champagne and hors d’oeuvres at a five-star restaurant before taking his own seat.

That continued on for the next two hours, the kid returning to the bar several times for refills, each time bringing his tray with him and serving his benefactor like he was some kind of dignitary.

He didn’t tip.

After the crowd had thinned out somewhat, Eyebrows himself deigned to grace the bar, leaning on his elbows with that shit-eating grin at the ready.

“Hello again,” he purred, eyes glittering in the dark bar lighting. “I was wondering if you had something with more depth than…”

“Than the overpriced MGD you’ve been drinking?” Chris tried.

“Sure, yeah,” he grinned wider, stubble now shadowing his jaw in the lights of the bar. It made his face more goofy then haughty.

“You could always switch to Stella. They say the chalice makes it taste less like piss and really ups your hipster cred.”

Eyebrows giggled. Actually giggled. Chris wondered exactly how drunk he was; it had seemed like his little twink was eating all the nuts while he’d downed most of the beer, so he might have been twice as deep as the count implied.

“How about the Newcastle,” his eyes crawled over the available taps before pulling back to Chris’ face. “I’m Zach. Quinto.”

Chris pulled the pint, glancing at the hand offered over the bar. “Chris,” he reluctantly returned, sliding the glass into his hand instead of shaking it. He watched the guy take a sip and lick the foam from his upper lip, waiting for him to pay.

“Chris. Short for Christian?”

“Christopher.”

“Oh,” he grinned again, “You know, most places won’t even serve Stella in Belgium. Kind of marks you as a foreigner with shitty taste.”

“You’d know?”

“Yeah,” Zach swept his hair back flirtily. “I lived in Amsterdam for a year, before I moved to London. We used to drive down to Antwerp or Brussels on weekends."

Something jealous tugged at Chris’ gut at that. “What’s your boyfriend studying?” he changed the subject, lifting his chin to the table.

“My…” Zach glanced back and laughed, “God no, he’s not my boyfriend. Definitely not.”

“Really? Following you everywhere, fetching you beer and nuts, calling you ‘sir’… I dunno, that seems like an arrangement if I’ve ever seen one,” Chris arched a brow and shrugged, “Kind of kinky, but I wouldn’t put it past someone like you.”

Zach watched his mouth, “Someone like me.”

“Yeah, someone with an inflated sense of self-importance and an ego the size of the Hindenburgh.”

“The… it’s not like that, trust me,” Zach said, chuckling, “He’s just… he’s just a friend. He’s in training for a… ah, personal assistant position. For a very important person.”

Chris licked his lips at this line of bullshit, “Right. Like I said about the Hindenburgh.” He leaned his hands on the bar, “Pro-tip for the VIP, then: ask your little serving boy to tip, because that’s kind of a thing here. As in, I make jack shit without them, okay?”

“Oh,” Zach cottoned on, pulling a twenty from his pocket. “By all means, then. What do they say here in America… ‘keep the change’?”

Chris huffed, taking the money with a downward glance, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Chris,” the guy gave him a weird formal bow of his head, “Short for Christopher,” he winked and took his drink back to the table.

He returned for two more rounds of beer and one-sided flirting before they were one of the final tables being politely reminded classes would start tomorrow morning. Chris hurried through his close-out, counting down his cash drawer, dumping the remaining nuts into a big bin, putting up chairs, and sweeping the floors before escaping into the cool night. Hopefully he’d get some decent shut-eye himself before that ass-early morning class.

He didn’t expect to run back into Zach and his friend on the way. The kid looked to be trying to coerce him back into the dorm building to sleep, but Zach had other plans. Chris probably should have crossed the street, but instead tried to just put his head down and get past the pair quickly without being noticed.

“Hey! Hey, Chris, short for Christopher!”

No such luck. He gritted his teeth and plowed on.

“No, wait! It’s Zach! Remember?”

As if he could forget. With a huff of the chilly night air, he stopped and turned, “Zach. Hates Stella in Amsterdam, drinks Newcastle in London.”

“Hey, yeah!” His grin stretched stupidly. “This is my Anton.” He palmed the kid’s head and scrubbed the curls. The kid immediately scowled and ducked out of his reach.

“Your VIP assistant-in-training.”

“Anton, this is Christopher,” he introduced. “Christopher, Anton. Christopher, Christopher. Say hi.”

Anton rolled his eyes, mumbling, “We’ve met.”

“You’re drunk, man,” Chris informed him.

“Yes,” He giggled and spread his arms wide. “Yes, I am. Drunk.”

Chris crossed his arms, “It’s less charming than you think. Have your buddy take you home.”

Anton agreed, reaching for his arm again, but Zach pulled out of his grip, stumbling closer to Chris. “Aw, no. Come back to our room with us.” 

“No thanks, I’m really not the dorm room threesome type.”

“Then Anton can find someplace else to be,” he leered suggestively, all teeth, sidling in to brush his knuckles against Chris’ cheek. “Come on, you know you want to.”

He pushed the hand away, “No, I really don’t.”

The guy shook his head as if to clear it. “Is this the hard-to-get game?”

“This is the not-getting-it game,” Chris backed up, but Zach kept coming closer, his breath sour with beer. “Hey, fuck off!”

Chris hadn’t punched anyone since the fourth grade, so when he saw red at the guy’s repeated pawing and swung, he was slightly stunned on his next blink to find Zach on his ass on the pavement, palming his face and looking completely baffled. Anton knelt down to help sit him up and looked up at Chris with something close to… admiration? He didn’t stick around to find out.

The adrenaline buzz didn’t wear off before he got home, rinsing his sore, trembling fist under the tap in the kitchen and hoping the guy wouldn't remember it in the morning.


	3. This Provincial Life

“Sir, time to wake up. First day of classes. I’ve laid out your clothes.”

“Sir. Wake up.”

“Sir.”

“HEY! GET UP!”

“Fuck. You.” Zach grunted, finally rolling over as Anton’s shout reverberated in his aching skull. “Why?”

“Because it’s now past 6:30, and your first class starts in less than half an hour. You won’t have time for breakfast.”

“You’re supposed to wake me up,” he snuffled with his eyes closed, stretching his legs under the blankets. “I should fire you.”

Anton rolled his eyes, “It’s a good thing I don’t report to you yet, sir. And for the record, I began trying to wake you up an hour ago.”

“Ah, the ‘not the boss of me’ defense. Don’t think I won’t remember when I can fire you,” he waved a finger, squinting painfully up at the ceiling with a jackhammer in his left eye socket.

“If you would please get out of bed, sir,” Anton huffed, looking anxiously at his watch, “We’re going to be late.”

“What happened last night?” Zach slowly slid down off the bunk with a wince, peering into the mirror by the closet and gingerly prodding the puffy bruise surrounding his eye with his fingertips, but he was smiling as the evening came back to him. “Who was that guy?”

Anton handed him a bottle of water and a couple of pills. “You were finally introduced to the cold, sad reality of rejection,” he cocked a brow. “Stings, doesn’t it?”

Zach made a face as he took the meds. “You’re only this snotty with me when I’m too hungover to be mad.”

“Yes, sir,” Anton smiled sweetly, handing over his robe and towel. “I do enjoy these mornings. Go take a shower, I’ll see if I can find something portable to eat.”

Zach obediently padded out to the bathrooms, head full of blue eyes and quick-witted snark. “Chris, short for Christopher,” he grinned.

 

Twenty minutes into Applied Physics with Prof Reeves going over the syllabus, and Chris was absolutely dying for a coffee. There were students who had brought theirs, the aroma wafting over the scrubbed chemical smell of the lab room in which he’d be stuck for the next few hours. The prof had sternly informed them all that after this first class, absolutely no food or drink—even coffee—would be allowed in the lab room for safety reasons. They weren’t even going to be working with chemicals of any kind in a remedial physics lab, and yet no coffee allowed. He could already tell he was going to despise this stupid class.

When a commotion paused the prof’s droning about grading percentages and brought everyone’s attention to the door, Chris knew instantly it was going to get even worse. The jerk from last night shuffled in wearing shades, the kid on his heels.

“Mr… Quinto?” Reeves deduced from the missing name on his attendance list. 

“That’s me,” he smiled winningly at the class at large.

The prof sniffed, unimpressed, “As I was just saying, tardiness will be deducted from your semester grade. Tardiness of more than ten minutes, and you will take a zero for the day regardless of your work. And you,” he turned to the kid, “Are not on my list.”

“I’m with him,” Anton indicated Zach.

“No. I’m afraid there is no room for boyfriends to sit in,” Reeves dismissed him shortly, his flinty gaze shifting back to Zach and handing him a syllabus, “Sit down, let’s continue.”

Looking stung, the kid turned wide eyes to Zach, who waved him away, their conversation hastily whispered. 

“Sir, what do I—”

“Just go.”

“But—”

“Go wait for me in the hall,” Zach hissed, and then took the vacant seat at Chris’ table, much to his dismay.

“Now, as you will read in Section Four, you will be conducting all class experiments with a partner. Now that there is an even number of attendants in the class, each of you should have one. The person sitting next to you is your permanent lab partner for the entire semester, so please introduce yourselves.”

Pulling off the sunglasses and tucking them down the collar of his shirt, Zach leveled a toothy smile over at Chris, who stared resolutely down at his syllabus. The guy’s eye was puffy enough to keep him squinting, decorated with a colorful bruise. He had decked him pretty good.

“You will also partner together for your semester project, as you will see described in Section Five. This project is to be completed outside of class. It will be presented by Week Fifteen and accounts for fifty percent of your grade, so be sure to exchange information and _work together_.”

Zach looked thrilled, while Chris ground his back teeth. Jesus Christ, his kingdom for a double espresso latte.

The professor released them early, after a demonstration of the typical sort of experiment that would be conducted in the class and more harping about the importance of the grading scale, teamwork and safety, but they were still there for more than two hours. Twice a week. Stuck in a science lab with Zach and his stupid eyebrows and his smug grin and his fucking Hermes man-bag. Chris booked it out of there as soon as he could, heading desperately out of the science building for the closest coffee shop.

“Hey, Christopher! Chris!” A now predictable voice rang out behind him, which he ignored. “Hey, wait! Please wait?”

Sighing, he slowed, allowing Zach to catch up, Anton jogging well behind his long-legged stride.

“What?” Chris snapped at him, “Look, I’m sorry I hit you, okay?”

“What? No, no,” Zach said. “If anything, I should be apologizing to you.”

Chris stopped walking to face him, annoyed.

“I am sincerely sorry for my behavior last night,” Zach squared up his stance and gave him that weird nod again, “I was drunk and out of line.”

“Yeah, you were,” he blinked, taken somewhat aback at the formality he hadn’t really expected.

“ _‘Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it.’_ ”

Chris wrinkled his nose, “Kierkegaard? Really?”

“He is the most revered philosopher of my country,” Zach shrugged.

“Huh,” he pretended to consider for a second. “Are all Danes so pathologically affected, or is it just you?”

“ _‘Once you label me you negate me’_ ,” Zach sassily quoted again.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, don’t be late to class again. I can’t afford to have my GPA messed with at your expense. And if I end up doing all the work by myself, you can be sure I’m letting the prof know to flunk your ass and not mine.”

That said, he headed off and wasn’t followed, for which he was thankful. This stupid class was going to be a hundred times more trouble than it was worth, and if he didn’t need it to graduate, he’d drop it in a heartbeat. For now, he was getting his fucking latte, dammit.

 

“Who pissed in your cheerios?” Cho asked when they met up later at the Bite for lunch.

“No one,” Chris grumbled at his sandwich. “Just this stupid science class.”

Cho smirked, “Told you not to wait.”

“You know there was no way I could have passed Organic Chem with you,” he gave him a dirty look, “Even this class is gonna have more math than I can deal with, and it was supposed to be pretty basic.”

“It is pretty basic,” Cho shrugged, mouth full. “You need to know about five simple equations and you’ll be fine.”

“More than that,” Chris retorted. “And we have to do this stupid project, build something demonstrating at least three principles, and present it. On top of all the in-class labs and homework. It’s gonna take up so much fucking time.”

“We?”

“Yeah, it’s all this partnered-up shit,” Chris aimed a sour look at his sandwich and then yelled over the deli counter at the guy manning it, one he’d trained to make the damn sandwich just the other day, “Hey, you totally skimped me on the pesto, man.”

The guy just shrugged, and with an eyeroll Chris got out of his seat, circling around the counter to apply more pesto himself.

“Hey, get me more of the spicy aioli too,” Cho called, yelling over at Chris’ boss, “What are you paying these new kids, Jerry, they can’t put a decent amount of the good stuff on your product?”

“Hey, not everybody has a romantic feelings about sandwiches,” Jerry said.

“But they should!” Chris grinned, lifting his newly dressed sub before sitting back down.

“So who’s this ‘we’?” Cho asked, lubing up his own sub with sriracha mayo.

“Huh?”

“Your lab partner.”

“Oh jesus,” Chris groaned, “You remember that kid in school who was like… I dunno, heir to some big studio magnate’s fortune?”

“Abrams.”

“Yeah, yeah! God, this douche is like that guy, times a thousand. He’s here on exchange too, he’s Danish, so you know he doesn’t actually give a shit about the grades. He was in here last night after you and Kerri bailed, closed the bar down. Tried to flirt with me the whole time, and now I have to fucking deal with his pompous ass all semester.”

“No way.”

“Oh and get this, he has this little boytoy, acts like a fucking valet. Follows him around and wipes his ass like he’s some kind of royalty.”

Cho laughed, “Sounds like he’s just your type.”

“Fuck off, man,” Chris swatted him hard in the arm. “Royal pain in my ass, and not in the good way. I punched him.”

Cho nearly choked on his sandwich, “ _You what_?!”

“I did,” Chris felt a little sheepish now, “He was drunk, wouldn’t leave me alone when I left, got all handsy. It kinda happened before I could think. And now he’s my lab partner.”

“Damn,” Cho’s eyebrows dropped in concern. “Dude, let me know if you need anything.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he brushed it off, “I think I made it obvious we’re not compatible.”

Chewing thoughtfully, Cho offered, “Well, I’ll still play your overprotective boyfriend if you need me to.”

He smirked, popping the last of his sandwich in his mouth and speaking through it, “He quoted Kierkegaard at me. Who the fuck does that?”

“Oh shit,” Cho guffawed, “World War Three, it’s on.”

 

+

 

The next Thursday, after enduring an hour of lecture with Zach spending most of the time just staring at him rather than taking notes, Chris was struggling to set up a complicated apparatus for the light-focusing experiment they were supposed to conduct while Zach unhelpfully fucked around with the pieces.

“Do I have something on my face?” he finally asked, annoyed with how he could feel those dark eyes crawling over him.

“Yeah,” Zach smiled. “Glasses.”

Chris shoved them back up his nose, continuing to fight with the rig.

“Do you need them?”

“Obviously,” Chris muttered, trying to avoid the subject. The only reason he was wearing them today was because with all the start of school stuff, he’d forgotten to change his shipping address back to Berkeley with the contact lens distributor, so his monthly order had gone to his parents’ house instead.

“They look good on you,” Zach commented, “Very… studious.”

Chris gave a frustrated sigh as the piece he was trying to hold in place while tightening the clamp at the same time sprang out of alignment once again. “Look, will you at least help me with this? I don’t have three hands here, and I could really use some time at the end of this period to finish something for my next class.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he grumbled, fussing with the pieces. 

“You just said it was something,” Zach contradicted cheekily. “How could you need time for nothing?”

“It’s just a translation I have to do.”

“Translation,” Zach popped his brows up, “From what language?”

Chris let the thing go again to glare at him, “Why do you care?”

“Maybe I can help.”

“Yeah, right,” he returned his attention to the experiment at hand. “Maybe you can help me set this shit up.”

“Yeah, right,” Zach parroted, finally leaning over the table to take hold of the apparatus to steady it, their fingers brushing. “I happen to speak several languages.”

“Whatever,” Chris mumbled, trying to ignore the broadness of his hands and the dusting of dark hair peeking out from his cuffs while he tightened the knob to keep it in place, until his curiosity got the better of him. “Which languages?”

Zach’s dark eyes flicked to him from under his bangs, smiling wider, “Danish and English, of course, French, Italian, German. Swedish and Norwegian are also dialectically similar enough to understand for most Scandinavians.”

Chris bit his lip at hearing a word like _dialectically_ used when most people would just say _they sound alike_. “Why? You a military brat?”

"What’s a—? No,” Zach shrugged, steadying the next piece. “Just lots of moving around. My family keeps houses in a few places. I pick them up pretty quickly.”

“Must be nice to be loaded,” Chris grumbled under his breath, ignoring Zach’s narrowed eyes.

He withdrew his hand, fingers stroking the back of Chris’ wrist. “Come on, what’s your homework?”

Chris carefully let go of the apparatus, spread hands framing it just in case it sprung off again, but it finally stayed put. “It’s just this poem stanza or something I have to translate.”

“What language?” Zach repeated, smugly.

“Italian,” he griped, turning to pull the folder out of his bag and handing the paper to Zach. As he read it, his smile grew wider and wider.

“What?”

Zach chuckled, “You’re a Literature major, right?”

“Yeah.” That was one of the things Zach had gleaned from twenty questions at the bar last night.

“Then you’ve probably read this in English,” he said, “I’m guessing your professor is counting on that.”

“So what is it?”

Zach tilted his head, catching his tongue flirtily between his teeth, “Now how will you ever learn if I just tell you the answer?”

Chris scowled, “Jesus, you’re really a prick, you know that?”

“Mm,” Zach merely narrowed his eyes, “Wrath is a deadly sin, Christopher.”

“So is pride, Mister ‘I have houses everywhere’.”

“Avarice,” Zach retorted haughtily, “Anyway, _I_ don’t have houses everywhere. I don’t have houses anywhere, in fact. My current address is the esteemed Putnam Hall.”

“But your family does?”

Zach grimaced, looking away, “My mother does. My aunt and uncle.”

“I’m not jealous,” Chris glared at him. “I grew up in Hollywood, man. Rich kids everywhere. Par for the course.”

“But not you?”

“Better to be a working actor, than an actor who barely works,” Chris said. “Courtesy my dad.”

“Your dad’s an actor?”

“He’s no one you’d know,” he mumbled, pulling together the rest of the supplies for the experiment. His dad made his living on bit parts and American TV, but he was hardly a household name, or at least he hadn’t been since Chris was in diapers.

“Mm,” Zach let his eye crawl down Chris’ body for the umpteenth time. “What’s your favorite deadly sin, Christopher?”

“Doesn’t having a favorite defeat the purpose?” he snorted.

“Maybe,” Zach grinned wickedly, “Mine is lust.”

“There’s a great big surprise.”

“Yeah, it tends to get me in trouble,” Zach prodded his eye with his fingertips. The swelling had gone down over two days, but the bruise there was now a blotchy rainbow of colors. He waved Chris’ Italian paper at him. “What an allegorical journey to be on, don’t you think?”

Chris smeared his hand down his face, “Yeah, though Hell,” he muttered, thinking that’s what this year was going to be if he had to put up with this shit twice a week…

He blinked, and then grabbed for the paper, staring wide-eyed at the text, brain picking out the words he recognized. “Hell.”

“ _Inferno_ ,” Zach enunciated clearly.

“This is Dante! _The Divine Comedy_!” Chris exclaimed, smiling brightly at his deduction. Now he saw how Zach had been prodding him toward it all along. “Hey, thanks!”

Zach’s expression turned a little struck, his smile softening. “You’re welcome.”

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he settled back down, putting the paper aside and going back to the experiment. Zach dropped his eyes back to the sheet of directions, pulling a couple of the boxes of lenses for it towards himself.

“So,” Chris redirected, “We should probably talk about this project we have to do.”

Zach nodded, holding one of the lenses to the light. “Do you have an idea?”

“Maybe something to do with photography?” Chris had a passing interest in that, at least.

“Did you want to do the whole ‘build a pinhole camera’ thing?” The prof had included several typical ideas for the project on the syllabus, the pinhole camera being one of them.

“I don’t really want to just pick something off the list he gave us, though.” Chris prided himself on having a little creativity beyond what someone stuck under his nose. He mulled it over, “But I’m not sure what else to do. Maybe like… I dunno, a flip book or a zoetrope type thing. Except I can’t draw, and I figure photographing that sort of thing is harder. We could take video and pull still frames. But there’d be no sciencing to that.”

“Muybridge.”

“Huh?”

“Eadweard Muybridge,” Zach repeated, explaining at Chris’ blank look, “In the late 1800’s, a racehorse owner commissioned a photographer, Muybridge, to help him prove that all four of a galloping horse’s hooves left the ground at some point in the sequence of its gait. It’s too fast for the human eye to see in real time, so before photography, no one could prove it. And you know a racehorse owner was a betting man, he had money on it. They did it with a bunch of early cameras and triggers,” he aimed the lens at Chris and peered at him through it, the caramel brown of his iris magnified, “It was essentially the dawn of sequential photography, moving pictures. Which means—if your dad is a big Hollywood actor—you’ve essentially grown up on the back of that galloping horse.”

“Hmph,” Chris snatched the lens from him to slide it into place on the apparatus and frowned, “And you want to… what?”

Zach spread his hands in obviousness, “Recreate it. I bet we could figure out how.”

“I dunno about people with multiple houses, but I only have one camera,” Chris told him. Two, if he counted his phone, and he didn’t. He did have a pretty nice Canon, though; it had been a gift from his dad a few Christmases ago, intended to be used on that eventual trip to Europe.

“Do they still make those cheap disposables?” Zach asked. “We could buy a bunch of those.”

“Fair enough,” Chris scrunched his nose. “But I don’t know anybody with a horse we could use.” The last time he’d been on a horse was a guided beachside excursion with a high school girlfriend, which had been about as far from romantic as possible, at least for him. The horse he’d been given was aptly named Spider; it felt like he had seven legs and didn’t know how to make them work in any kind of discernible order. Just thinking about that jarring ride made his balls want to retreat in fear. “Never mind riding one at full-tilt.”

“I’ve been riding since I was a kid,” Zach grinned, and waggled an eyebrow suggestively. “Horses, anyway.”

Chris rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to the experiment at hand. With all the lenses in place, they worked in near silence until they had the numbers they needed, Zach actually taking down the results, having the professor check them off and then beginning the process of disassembling the thing all over again. Chris then pulled his Italian translation toward him and looked up the part of the Dante work he needed on his phone.

“Do you really think we can do the horse thing?” he asked as they packed up to leave, hankering for a coffee. “I mean, we can figure out the camera trigger thing, I guess, but finding a horse and renting the time and space to do it on a budget…”

Zach looked confident, “You can leave it to me. I’ll make it happen.”

 

+

 

Waking when Anton loudly shut the door, Zach scrubbed his eyes with a yawn and looked at the clock.

“You have only one class on your agenda today, sir, at 11AM,” Anton said, anticipating him. “I figured you’d prefer to sleep in.”

“I did,” he stretched, rolling to watch him rustling through a paper bag to set its contents on the desk, the aroma wafting up.

“Ooh, Egg McMuffins again!” Zach exclaimed with only some sarcasm, because he kind of didn’t mind them too much. He slid down from the bed and dropped into the desk chair to eat.

“Enjoy, sir,” Anton said, turning to the closet, “I bought them with what was left of your money.”

Zach chewed through a big bite of formed egg, sausage and oily American cheese, “We’ve only been here a week.”

“Yes sir, and in that time, we’ve hired two cars, purchased your school supplies, eaten twelve meals at fine restaurants and spent roughly $100 on beer.”

“Didn't you say we had $750?”

“That was your $750, sir,” Anton told him, “To be honest, I’m surprised it lasted this long.”

Finishing the sandwich in three bites and unwrapping the second, Zach shrugged. “I guess you’ll have to get a job.”

Anton peeled off his shirt to a skinny torso, grabbing his own robe and towel, and aimed a pointed look at him. “With all due respect, sir, I have a job.”

With that, he left the room for the showers.

Zach scowled down at his food. He wasn’t completely obtuse; he was perfectly aware that money was finite, that it had to be earned somehow, he’d just never experienced it for himself. For most of his life, he’d had a generous allowance, and then access to his own trusts once he came of age. Anton had handled his finances for the past three years at his mother’s request, and he barely had an idea of how much he’d spent on a daily basis in that time frame. He had inherited Eddie’s royal duchy with its interests and income as Heir Presumptive, but Razz had made sure he would not be able to access that out of pure spite.

There were a few options, the worst of which was returning to Denmark with his tail between his legs. Another just as insufferable option was calling his mother.

He sighed, rewrapping the second sandwich in its greasy paper. Despite the opinions of many, including probably Anton, he wasn’t completely incapable of basic skills. A simple job couldn’t be that hard, right? Certainly not any harder than the one he was doing his damnedest to avoid.

 

+

 

Chris stumped toward the Bite for his long Saturday shift, taking a drink from his coffee. He liked these mornings, usually spent in food prep for the coming week before the deli opened at eleven for lunch. It gave him time in his own head while his hands did repetitive work.

He was taking fewer classes this semester and thus had more time to dedicate to studying and working, though money was still tight. Rent in Berkeley wasn’t cheap even with a housemate, and he didn’t want to have to dip into the savings he’d accrued over the summer unless it was absolutely necessary. He’d worked various basic jobs, doing dishes and sweeping auto garages and the like since he was fifteen. Jerry paid him a few bucks an hour more than average, plus tips. Reliability had its perks.

He nodded to his boss as he walked in, who indicated the kitchen. “Hey, got a newbie waiting back there for you.”

“Again? What happened to Nick?”

“Tapped out,” Jerry said. “I give ‘em chances, but you know these kids.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he huffed in annoyance, clocking in at the computer. It was surprising to him, the number of kids who’d apparently been waited on hand and foot since birth, then thrust out into the wide world only to discover the cruel truth of doing other people’s shitwork for measly pay; it was too much for most of California’s middle class babies. Chris knew he was counted among them, but the difference was his parents had taught him the necessity of earning his keep long before they’d sent him out into the world to fend for himself, and he believed that made all the difference.

He pushed through the swinging door to the back kitchen to see the new meat.

And then reversed his ass silently back out, hissing as he pointed through the little window in the door, “What the hell is _he_ doing back there?”

Jerry peered in as well, “He’s your new dishboy.”

“Haha, funny.”

“Haha, funny,” Jerry said, raising both eyebrows in total seriousness.

“Aw Jerry, this guy?” he moaned in disbelief, “Talk about someone who can’t handle it.”

“Yeah well, he’s the one who came in this morning saying he needed a job,” Jerry lifted his shoulders and went back to stocking the deli case.

Chris groaned, pushing back in. Zach stood at the dish sink, expensive clothes draped in a rubber apron, shifting gingerly through dirty pans and fiddling with the sprayer hose.

He leaned back against the prep counter to watch. Zach grinned when he finally noticed him, absently pulling up the door of the industrial dishwasher while it was still running and subsequently getting showered with hot water and suds.

Rolling his eyes, Chris reached for a towel to hand over, which Zach took gratefully after he’d yanked the door back down, spluttering and wiping suds from his shoulder and arm.

“So,” Chris started, folding his arms over his chest, “You came here in a Mercedes limo with an ‘assistant’ and a bunch of designer luggage a week ago, and now you probably just ruined your Valentino shirt while washing dishes in a college sandwich shop. What the hell are you doing, man?”

Zach chuckled self-deprecatingly, “I’m, uh, gaining some work experience?”

“Do you even have any work experience?”

He shrugged, still aiming for another winning smile, “Not exactly. But I’m not above manual labor if it gets me what I need, Christopher.” 

Chris narrowed his eyes, looking for a ruse, “Are you just following me around, hoping to wear me down?” Zach had been in the bar every night that Chris was there, either watching him from his table with Anton or coming to the bar directly to make inane conversation. Chris thought he’d been pretty clear about where he stood, but the bruise on Zach’s eye had nearly faded now. “Because this is my last year and I’m jumping straight into grad school after this, so I’m really not interested in messing around.”

“No, no, of course not,” Zach answered quickly, “It's silly, really, I’m just terrible at managing my own finances. I ran out of money.”

“So ask Mommy and Daddy to send you some,” Chris sneered.

Under his icy glare, Zach’s eyes fell to the floor, “Look, you’re right, okay? About where I come from, my family’s money. But the thing is, they didn’t exactly approve of me coming out here.”

Chris put that together. “So you’re cut off.”

“I… yeah.”

Still skeptical, he said, “You know we still have to come up with enough to do that stupid project. I can’t do it by myself.”

“I know. So obviously, I need this job, right?” Zach insisted, “And you know, to be able to eat sometimes, hopefully. The owner out there said I get a free sandwich on a shift.”

“Wow. How the mighty have fallen,” Chris quipped. Zach had missed a fluff of soap suds still clinging to his hair. Instead of pointing it out, he strode over to the dishwasher, which had finished the cycle. He tapped the control pad. “Dishwashing 101: When the little light is red, don’t open the door. Okay?”

“Okay,” Zach laughed.

“So, finish this stuff and then come see me, I’ll find something else for you to do.”

To say Chris took the opportunity (and a perverse pleasure) in putting Zach through the bottom rungs of the food service industry would be a gross understatement. On top of scrubbing out greasy pans, he made Zach clean the bathrooms and the grease trap that first day, all of which were considerable tests of staying power for the uninitiated. That designer shirt would never be right again, and he was positive Zach wouldn’t come back.

But he did. Over the course of the next week whenever they shared a shift, Zach showed up on time, listened to Chris and Jerry’s explanations of sanitation and cross contamination rules with vested interest, watched how the meat and cheese slicers were disassembled to be cleaned without killing anyone, same for the beer tap hoses at the bar and the soda machine. He bussed and wiped tables, cleaned out condiment squeeze bottles and ran countless loads of dishes without even a hint of complaint, which was more than could be said for the majority of kids who came through the place. It wasn’t fun or easy work, and Chris was more than a little grudgingly impressed at how he handled it.

The following weekend, he had set Zach to cleaning the grill hood, a task he’d expected to take him longer than it did. Once finished, Zach came to stand behind him at the prep table, watching as he prepped meatballs, scooping and rolling each one to line up on baking trays.

“You do this every week?” he asked.

“Three times a week,” he answered, setting another down in a line. “Meatball subs are popular.”

Zach chuckled, “I bet. I think I’ve seen you take down a few. Three to a sandwich, right?”

Chris had been schooling him on the menu, but he was still surprised Zach remembered. “You’re new, you probably won’t run the counter during a rush anytime soon,” he paused to look over his shoulder, “Besides, I doubt you care much.”

“I’m stung, Christopher,” he placed a hand on his heart in mock affront, “I’ll have you know sandwiches are something of a Danish specialty.”

Chris smirked, “I thought it was all lutefisk and gravlax and pickled everything.”

“You’re thinking Norway, Sweden. Greenland too. We Danes like our fish, but we’re also a little more continental.”

“Is that so?” Chris snorted. “Well, we’ll see if you can back me up when it gets busy later. Lots of meatball subs.”

“It’s a good thing I’m half-Italian, then.”

“Come on, man,” Chris smirked, “How many things can you be?”

“Oh, so America is the only melting pot of nationalities?”

“I guess not,” Chris looked back down at his tray. “Is that why you don’t have an accent? A European one.”

“Well, I could, if you like,” Zach easily affected London posh, then switched back, “Actually, my English tutor was from Pennsylvania. And at the time, everyone else I knew was learning British Received Pronunciation, so of course I thought it was much cooler to sound American.”

“How rebellious of you,” he peeled off his gloves, picked up the loaded trays and Zach stepped aside so he could slide them into the oven. The grill hood shone, and Chris piled his mixing bowls covered with raw meat goo at the dish station, “You can wash this stuff up now.”

 

+

 

The first four weeks of school went quickly, with Chris falling back into his steady routine. It didn’t leave much time for screwing around, not that he was screwing around this year. He wondered how he’d managed to fit anything else in as an underclassman. Between classes, working, studying and homework, there wasn’t time for parties or dating or anything else. Or maybe he’d gotten the partying out of his system and was taking it all more seriously now that the rest of his life was just months away.

With the first round of exams coming through, he'd thought he was mostly ahead of the curve. He’d blown through the Dostoyevsky exam with an easy A, even did surprisingly well on the first Physics test. But he discovered how erroneous that assumption was as he flipped through the stacks of blue books for the Italian exam. When he found his own, he’d almost skipped right past it, sure his score couldn’t possibly be that low. But it was, a 58 out of 100. As he thumbed through the pages, each of his answers were marked up in red, the last with a large and heavily underlined, _L'Italiano non è il Francese!_

“Shit,” he breathed to himself.

After cornering the professor on her way to lunch and working out some extra credit to try and lever his GPA up, he spent the afternoon poring through his textbook and all the complex conjugations he’d so thoroughly messed up on, he still couldn’t make heads or tails of which ones he was supposed to use at any given time. He finally shut the book to head off to work, no wiser to Italian linguistics than before.

As he arrived, Zach was finishing his shift, dragging the recently hosed dish station mats back in from the alley. Chris clocked in and hung up his jacket, gnawing on his lip as he watched him hand off the rubber apron to the evening shift dishwasher and wash his hands.

Zach, who was supposedly half-Italian, so he claimed. Zach, who continued to insert himself into Chris’ life, despite all attempts to avoid in the last month.

Okay, it wasn’t that bad. Chris was Lit, Zach was Poli-Sci, and their bi-weekly Physics class was the only one they shared. They had yet to work on their joint project with any real intent—Zach said he was still working out the horse situation. There were only a couple of days a week at the Bite where they shared shifts. The rest, like tonight, Zach was coming off the afternoon shift while Chris was getting on at the bar for the night. So aside from the class, the Friday rushes, Saturday morning preps and in passing between shifts, he rarely saw him otherwise. Though when he did, he still always felt like Zach was always vying for his attention. Not overtly, he was never quite so blatant as he’d been the first night, but anything to get a rise out of Chris seemed to make him happy. The idea of purposely asking for his help grated his nerves.

With a sigh, he headed out to get the bar set up, counting the cash drawer and cutting up lemons. Zach almost always sat at the bar after he’d clocked out, having a beer and making the usual asinine conversation. As usual, Anton sat at one of the tables with a laptop, presumably waiting for him. 

Chris still didn’t know what to make of that situation. He figured Anton had his own classes to attend, and maybe they really were in some sort of business arrangement, but that didn’t make a lot of sense if Zach was hurting for money. Unless of course money wasn’t the thing on exchange. That Zach openly flirted with him right in front of the kid made it all the more irritating. But it wasn’t his business what sort of arrangement they had, Chris reminded himself once again.

“So how is Chris this evening?” Zach smiled, settling in on a stool.

Chris pulled a Newcastle for him with lingering annoyance, eyes turned down to his lemons, lest he take the end of a finger off and make the day even worse. “Chris is present.”

“Chris is grumpy,” Zach chuckled, wincing around a cheap gulp, “I’m starting to think it’s me.”

“I don’t think I ever gave an impression otherwise,” Chris shot back. This was typical too, Zach disparaging Chris’ moodiness, Chris making sure Zach knew where the fault lay, even though by now he was mostly over it. If the guy was going to be a fixture for the school year, he could grin and bear it, as long as it stayed more or less benign.

Zach tilted his head speculatively, “So what’s really up your butt?”

Chris wanted to retort that Zach was, but that would probably only lead to the trademark eyebrow and the implication that Zach would certainly like to be, so he just set the tub of lemon wedges into the cooler table and pulled a few limes over. Setting the knife aside, he leaned on his hands around the cutting board, bracing himself to ask, “Do you really speak Italian?”

“ _Si_ ,” Zach hooded his eyes brazenly, “ _E ‘la lingua madre di mio padre, è normale che io sia fluente._ ”

Chris chewed his lip, even now having trouble parsing that out, spoken as swiftly as it was. Dammit. The ease with which Zach’s low, rich voice curled around the lilting consonants and vowels was as indicative of a native speaker as his professor’s. The guy clearly had a talent for whatever language he needed to learn.

He sighed heavily. The solution to his problem here was obvious, as much as he hated to admit it. “Do you think, maybe…” he trailed off.

“I think often,” Zach sassed with a smile. “Most days I can’t stop thinking of all the maybes.”

Chris rolled his eyes, grabbing a lime to mutilate.

“What?” Zach laughed softly, taking another drink, “For a minute there, it sounded like you wanted something from me.”

“I was wondering if you could help me,” Chris muttered, eyes on his slicing, “With Italian. Complex grammar and stuff.”

“Oh my god,” Zach’s eyebrows crawled up in amused incredulousness. “How much of your pride did it cost to ask me that?”

Chris huffed and scraped the slices into another plastic bin for the cooler. “A lot.”

“And what will you give me in return for my help?” he teased.

“Grudging respect,” Chris gritted his teeth. “At least for your linguistic skills.”

Zach laughed out loud, mouth wide and eyes crinkling. “From you, Christopher, that is a prize.” He drained the rest of his beer and leaned across the bar to snatch a maraschino, licking it into his mouth and lowering thick eyelashes. “There’s a filthy joke here about talented tongues, but I’d be happy to earn your respect in whatever capacity.” With that, he dropped six bucks on the bar for the beer, collected Anton and left, leaving Chris annoyed and feeling like he’d handed over some kind of a win.

So began another addition of Zach to his schedule, regular meet ups to study, oftentimes with Anton. Occasionally Cho also joined them, though on those days, they all spent more time snarking at each other than studying.

“I like him,” Cho said one evening in his car, heading home after a particularly useless session. Receiving a sour look from Chris, he amended with a shrug, “No, I mean he’s a dick, but at least he takes it in stride. He’s kind of oblivious, right? It’s amusing how someone can be so completely up their own ass and think the whole rest of the world wants a good look up there.”

Chris snorted, “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Oh, I don’t have to,” Cho grinned. “And yet he’s living at Putnam and playing your dishboy?”

“Yeah,” Chris rubbed a hand over his stubbly chin, “He claims he’s been cut off, but I dunno.”

“I bet there’s something else to it, something he’s not saying,” Cho mused, turning onto their darkened street. “Guy like that, coming out here with no money when he’s obviously got some? It’s like he’s slumming it just for the novel cultural experience. Maybe he lost a bet.”

“Whatever, I don’t really care,” Chris lied easily as they pulled up to the curb and got out, “As long as he doesn’t fuck up my year anymore than he already has.”

He clamped down on his own inherent curiosity. It didn’t matter anyway, who Zach was and where he came from, or even what he was doing out here. In a few months the school year would be over, and they’d go their separate ways. Whatever he discovered about him in the interim wouldn’t make much of a difference.

 

Later in the week as they went through the shift change at the Bite, Zach’s relief dishwasher was running late, keeping him finishing up in the kitchen. Chris walked the dining room, swapping out the Daily Sandwich Special cards for the Beer On Tap menu. As he passed behind the table Anton regularly occupied as he waited for Zach, he caught sight of what he was doing on his laptop.

It looked like he was resubmitting a Craigslist ad, reading: 

_Berkeley students seeking use of horse and preferably indoor arena facilities for Muybridge-style photography experiment. Horse would be ridden at speed for short intervals while photographed-no flash. Experienced horseman, animal lovers, willing to pay and/or work for time. Please contact…_

Chris stopped and leaned closer to read, Anton starting a little at his sudden appearance over his shoulder.

“What the hell? He’s got _you_ doing this for him?” he blurted out.

“Yeah?” Anton shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

Chris’ anger fired right up. “Do you do all his homework for him?”

“Of course not,” the kid protested, “This doesn’t really count, does it? I’m just helping you guys out, finding this for you. I have the time while he’s in class.”

Chris bit his tongue, conflicted. On the one hand, Zach had insisted he’d take care of this and now he’d foisted it off on his little go-fer in training or whatever fuck he was, and that didn’t seem at all fair. But on the other, he had to get a good grade in this class, and a really hardcore final project would help.

He eyeballed the kid. “Why do you put up with him?” Anton opened his mouth and closed it, cheeks flushing as his eyes darted clearly in search of some lie to cover up whatever the hell this thing was. Chris shook his head, fed up, “Look, I know it’s none of my business if this is some kinky exchange thing you do together, but—”

“No,” Anton insisted emphatically. “No, no, it’s not. It’s really, really not like that. I like girls, for one thing.”

Searching the kid’s pink face, Chris could maybe believe that. They weren’t that far off in age, but he could almost see his younger self in Anton, earnest and maybe too eager-to-please and earn praise someone with such a strong personality. But that didn’t make sense either, Zach had never so much as dropped a thank you when Anton did something for him in Chris’ presence. “Okay. I just… I think you should hang out with other people. Better people than him.” 

“It isn’t a question of choice,” Anton said, resigned, “I’m an employee of his family. He’s my job.”

Chris propped his hands on his hips, watching Zach come out to the deli case with a bottle of glass cleaner and rag, smiling in their direction as he wiped it down. “What is he really doing here?”

“Going to school?” Anton waved a hand at the obviousness of it.

“With a fucking PA?”

“Hey,” Anton lifted his shoulders, “I just work here. I go where he goes.”

He clenched his jaw. “Somebody paying you?”

“Yeah, of course,” the kid insisted. “You think I’d deal with him for free?”

Chris smirked, “Hey, the rest of us have to.”

So Anton really was some kind of an assistant after all. Chris crossed his arms over his chest. What kind of douche came to college with a PA, but no money? Zach was seriously something else.

“They pay you, but they’re making him work a shit job to be able to eat and pay his dorm fees?”

“The room was paid for the year,” Anton explained, “But the rest, can you blame them? I think it’s great.”

Chris shook his head in disbelief. “Are they good people?” he asked. “Do they… I dunno why I’m even asking. Do they at least do something worthwhile with what they have? I mean, if he’s here to learn something, is he going to go back and do something decent with this?”

“Yes,” Anton’s expression went suddenly serious. He looked surreptitiously over at Zach and then leaned closer, voice low, “Listen, I know he’s a dick. I’ve been assigned to him for three years, and it’s been a shitty three years, man. But I’ve never seen anyone refuse to take his crap like you do.”

Chris snorted a guilty laugh. “Uh. I don’t usually go around punching people.”

“No, it was awesome,” Anton grinned.

Lifting a shoulder, he turned away, intending to finish his tables.

“Chris,” Anton called him back. “I don’t think he really means it, when he’s…”

“Being an asshole?”

“Yeah. I just think he doesn’t really know any better.”

“And you aren’t allowed to say so, are you?”

Anton twitched. “Not in so many words, no.”

Chris nodded, shuffling the laminated menus, “Yeah. Okay.”

By the time Zach finished and came to the bar for his customary beer, Chris had never managed to figure out a way to broach the subject. He had, after all, been told Anton was really his assistant, right here at this bar that first night. If he wasn’t lying about that, or about his family situation, then there wasn’t any basis for an accusation, was there? It wasn’t any of Chris’ business anyway, nor should it be. So Zach drank his beer, collected Anton and said goodnight, and Chris tried to let it go, to ignore the persistent itch of curiosity.


	4. You've Got A Friend In Me

A Sunday in October before midterms had Zach up early, meeting Chris at a local coffee shop that catered to cramming students with comfy chairs and ample space. Anton was often gone early these mornings, leaving notes about doing laundry, picking up dry cleaning or grocery essentials. Zach had no idea what that entailed, but it left him with hours of time alone with Chris, which was always a plus.

Chris was already there with his laptop, papers and two coffee cups spread across the table before him, frustration radiating off already.

“So what are we working on today?” Zach queried, pulling his own books from his bag. The way Chris got himself worked into a froth while studying was completely endearing.

Predictably, he gave an annoyed twitch. “I have to rewrite this thing. Not really a direct translation, but basically I’m supposed to summarize a short story in Italian.”

“And you’re doing what?” Zach prodded.

“It’s, um,” he hedged, “A fairytale.”

“Ah. Which one?”

“It’s kind of obscure,” Chris muttered, his eyes darting in avoidance, “You probably wouldn’t know it.”

“Ooh,” Zach teased, “So we’re being unique and pretentious. Excellent.”

“We aren’t doing anything. I’m working within my concentration,” he grouched, “Folktales are kind of my thing.”

Zach let his grin stretch, which only made Chris glower harder, “Shut up, okay? I get enough shit for it as it is.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” Obviously, this was something Chris had been teased about before. His hackles were so easily raised, and Zach enjoyed being an available target, if Chris would give him nothing else. 

“You know, fairytales are actually really important, even nowadays. They’re always being rewritten, retold. They’re redoing them in film and tv. They’re big business right now, and every time, new elements are added,” he lectured. “So many people just don’t even get it, how important they are.”

“Hey,” Zach held up his hands, “You don’t have to tell me. You know Hans Christian Andersen is one of my country’s most beloved writers, I’m sure.”

That settled Chris’ discontent somewhat, the ferocity leaving his eyes for something more internalized.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you stories?” he asked, fingers fiddling with his pen.

“Of course,” Zach inclined his head, “I don’t really remember being attached to any in particular, but I’m sure I liked them as a kid. And I’ve seen the old Disney movies and stuff.”

He did like films, more so when he’d been a kid and teenager, and he’d always loved theater. It had become a lot harder to go see a movie as he’d gotten older and the press took interest in anything he did. It occurred to him that he hadn’t been in quite a long time.

“I guess it depends,” he expanded, “A lot of the people I hung around with weren’t really into that sort of entertainment. Magical castles and dragons and things.” Granted, a lot of the people he hung around with actually lived in castles and old manor houses, everybody knew everybody else, and the princess in the next castle over was a bitch you wouldn’t want to marry anyway. It tended to take away from the whole mystique.

“Yeah, but that’s my whole thing,” Chris gestured wildly, “There are kids out there who don’t get this stuff read to them, that kind of engagement with their imagination when they’re young, or somewhere along the line someone tells them it’s not cool to like fantasy stuff. Then they grow up and you try to take them to see something like _The Lord of the Rings_ or _Star Trek_ or something and they say, ‘I don’t get it. None of this is real, hobbits and space aliens don’t exist, so I can’t take this shit seriously, because I can’t relate to it’. They’ve lost all ability to suspend disbelief. And that’s fucking sad, man.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, I mean, they can’t see how allegorical it is. They can’t see themselves in the story, in the characters. They can’t look at Harry Potter and go ‘you’re twelve, you idiot, don’t steal the flying car’ or they can’t look at Molly Grue and say ‘but her unicorn did come to her, she didn’t have to be young and beautiful and new, I’m not’. They can’t ask themselves, ‘What would I do? Which path would I take?’ because they don’t think it applies to them in real life. They can’t see that a dragon represents some other big terrible real life problem, that they make those decisions and fight the battles every day. It’s just a little less fantastical, because obviously none of us are princes and princesses who live in magic kingdoms, and maybe the dragon is more like your asshole boss or dissertation committee or something, and that’s okay.” 

Zach tightened his lips and looked out the window as Chris ranted through his schpeal. He was wrong. Some people really were princes, and those dragon-sized problems were real world issues that had to be solved, and it wasn’t anywhere near as romantic as the stories made it seem. It was a curse, one that couldn’t be broken by true love’s kiss or however it went.

But Chris looked so ardent, so desperate to be understood. “Does that make any sense at all?”

“Yeah,” Zach broke his stupor, sitting up straighter, “No, I get it.” He wasn’t so sure he did, so he changed tact. “So why are you grumpy about this assignment?”

“I dunno, I just think it loses something in translation,” Chris said, throwing an annoyed gesture at his laptop and notes. “Which is dumb, because it’s actually an Italian fairytale to begin with, but I couldn’t find an Italian version, this is the oldest and simplest version I could find.” He heaved a defeated sigh, “I should probably just pick something else. Something I care less about.”

Zach sat forward again, amused with Chris’ annoyance. “Tell me this fairytale.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t be into it,” Chris flushed attractively pink, “It’s silly.”

“So? Aren’t they all?”

Those blue eyes darted between his, parsing out his dedication or whether he meant to tease more. Zach carefully schooled his expression to interest, and Chris glanced at the text he’d written out, licked his lips and began the tale.

“Okay so, _a Farmer had a baby girl, and one day when he’d gone out to tend his fields, his wife, who was secretly a good witch, granted the baby Beauty and Wit.”_

“Of course her mother is a witch,” Zach smirked.

Chris squinted, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well obviously,” he pointed out, “A woman can’t possibly be smart _and_ beautiful without magical intervention, can she?”

Chris looked back at the text, shrugging, “That’s just the way it was written, I dunno.”

“Of course,” he said, gesturing him on. “Anyway, so she was a smart girl.”

“ _A Clever Girl_. That’s what this one is called,” Chris told him, _“Years later, after his wife had died, the Farmer found a gold mortar while tilling his field and decided he’d take it to the King as a gift. His daughter warned him, ‘A mortar is no use without its pestle, the King will take you for a thief.’ But the Farmer took it anyway, certain his daughter was wrong._

_The King looked at the mortar and said, ‘Where is the pestle? Bring it immediately or I will throw you in jail!’ The Farmer cowered and said, ‘Oh, Pina said you would say that, my wise daughter!’”_

Zach’s eyebrow rose at the name of the clever girl, but Chris plunged on.

_“‘Your daughter is wise indeed,’ said the King. This King loved cleverness, but he was also greedy and self-serving. “‘Take her this flax to spin and weave to clothe my army! If she can’t do it, I’ll put you both in prison!’”_

“What a dick,” Zach commented.

Chris snickered and continued, _“Pina took the flax and only laughed. ‘Go back and tell the King I cannot clothe his army if he does not build me a loom.’ So the Farmer did, and the King was amazed at the audacity. ‘How bold a woman. Tell her to come here, I want to meet her. But! She must come neither with clothes on, nor naked, neither walking on her feet, nor riding on horse, ass, or mule. Beat that!’”_

_“But Pina only laughed again,”_ Chris grinned, now engrossed in telling his tale. Zach leaned his chin on his hand. _“She took off her clothes, unbraided her long hair so it fell all around her body, and then she caught her father’s ram and rode it to the castle. The King laughed and laughed, and said, ‘A clever wife would never make for a dull life! Will you marry me, Pina?’_

“And so they were married, and Pina became Queen,” Chris grinned, gesturing grandly with both arms.

“Even though the King was kind of a dick?” Zach asked.

Chris forestalled him with a wave, “No, see, it doesn’t end there. _One day, he was out riding and saw a beautiful stallion in a meadow and said, “I have no finer horse in my livery! I want it!’ And so he ordered it captured and taken back to his royal stables._

_“And when the angry Horseman who owned the stallion came to claim it, the greedy King just sent him away with scorn, saying anything on the King’s land was his to take. Queen Pina begged him to be just and offer to buy it at a fair price. But the King was still a dick, and refused.”_

Zach frowned. “I have no idea why she’d marry this guy, honestly.”

Chris went on, _“So Queen Pina sent secretly for the Horseman, and told him a clever way to get his horse back. The Horseman took a fishing net, draped it around himself, and called loudly up and down the streets, ‘Who will come fishing with me?’ Over and over he yelled, right outside the King’s window as he tried to sleep. And finally the King threw open his window and yelled, ‘You will catch no fish in the streets! Go away!’_

_“‘But you are a fine fisher of horses in my meadow, aren’t you, my King?’ the Horseman called back._

_“Now, the King was impressed with that answer, and ordered the stallion be returned to the Horseman. But he was still angry that he’d been tricked, and went to the likeliest mastermind, his wife. ‘You have no care for me or my interests. If you love your simple peasants so much, go back to them and leave me!’”_

_“And Queen Pina said, ‘Very well, my King. Though when we were wed, you told me whatever I find to be most precious in this palace is mine!’_

_“And the King scoffed, ‘Take whatever you want, you know nothing of precious things.’”_

Chris paused dramatically here, fixing him with that fiery blue gaze, and Zach waited on baited breath, _“Now, Pina had been learned magic from her mother and she made a sleeping potion that she put into the King’s dinner wine. And then when he fell asleep, she had the servants load him into a coach, and took him to her father’s cottage._

_“And when the King woke on a hard bed in a simple Farmer’s hovel, he cried in a fright, ‘Where am I? Where is my fine palace? What have you done?’_

_“Pina laughed and told him, ‘Why, my King, I did as you ordered. You told me to leave, but bade me take what was most precious to me. And I did.’_

_“The King laughed to know his greatest mistake, and so he took Pina and her father back to the palace, where they lived happily ever after,”_ Chris finished with a flourish, a brilliant smile on his face.

But Zach couldn’t wrap his head around it, eyebrows crowding together.

“You don’t like it?” Chris’ face fell.

“I do, but,” he shook his head in confusion, “I don’t understand it. The King was horrible, he threatened to imprison Pina and her father, he stole from his people, he threw her out over something so trivial… it doesn’t make sense.”

Chris nodded, “Yeah. That’s the thing about some of these old ones, the morality play isn’t always spelled out. I kind of like it that way, though, you know? Make the kids work it out. That’s the point.”

Zach studied Chris’ face, amused and excited as he was, entrenched in his element. He shook his head, “Obviously, you’re the cleverer of us, _Pina_. Your mother must have been a witch.” 

“Shut up, man. Why does everybody always assume I identify with the damsel-in-distress?” Chris grumbled, but good-natured now his mood had lifted a little bit.

Giggling, Zach raised both palms, “Hey, I didn’t see a damsel in this particular fairytale. Seemed to me like she held her own just fine.”

“Whatever, maybe I want to be Prince Charming. Maybe I want to be the King.”

That sobered Zach somewhat. Chris saw through him on nearly every other level, he’d never been able to pull the wool over his eyes about himself entirely. If only he could just come clean… “No,” he shook his head, “No I think, in this case, you’re the clever heroine. I just don’t understand why she would choose such an asshole.”

Chris folded his arms on the table, eyes focused on his text again thoughtfully, “I mean, yeah, the King was a dick. But maybe he learned from his mistakes.” He fidgeted with the pen at his elbow, “It’s like… sometimes you can’t help who you fall in love with, right? Maybe that’s something that’s been lost in translation with this version. The King saw her intelligence, he appreciated her for that more than her looks. And maybe he got better, you know, maybe she taught him to be a better person after this. Maybe he stayed with them for while before they went back. Maybe her father taught him what it’s like to work the farm, and maybe he ate simple peasant food and wore boring peasant clothes and saw what life was like for the people he ruled. Maybe she loved the King in spite of his flaws, and she tempered him when he went too far. That’s kind of the way I look at it.”

“Maybe,” Zach murmured, deep in his own thoughts before he shook his head to clear it. “Well, maybe you can add that back into your translation, right? Didn’t you say fairytales evolved? You can evolve this one.”

“Yeah,” Chris said. “And get rid of the witch part?”

“Right. See? Fairytales with no magic necessary,” Zach laughed, “Show me what you have so far.”

Zach prodded him on correct Italian structure and word choice for three hours before Chris was starting to go cross-eyed and Anton joined them. Zach immediately sent him to fetch fresh coffees and pastries, which Chris dove on with gusto.

“So have you been to Italy?” Chris asked through a bite.

“Um,” he stalled, glancing Anton’s way, “Once.”

“Only once? I thought you said you’ve been all over,” Chris considered, “Seems weird if you’re half from there.”

“Is it?” Zach evaded and challenged back, “Where are your parents from?”

“Here, mostly,” he answered, then rubbed the back of his neck, “Well, no, my dad’s from New York, but he moved out here when he was my age.”

“And how often have you been to New York?”

“Once,” Chris muttered.

Zach launched his offensive, “See? There you go.”

“But my dad doesn’t have any family left out there anymore, there hasn’t really been a reason to go back,” Chris argued.

Zach nodded, “Well, same for me, then.”

Anton threw him a look that he ignored. Chris didn’t need to know the whole history of the House of Savoy’s exile after the abolishment of the Italian monarchy, never mind his dad’s laundry list of exploits and scandals. It was enough that the tabloids loved to bring up how much he took after him. The exile was overturned when he was a teenager and his father was ten years dead. He and his mother had been invited to visit some of the family’s old estates, which were now property of the state. Come, look at all your family’s centuries of history that is ours now. It was almost a parting kick in the face, he’d thought at the time. He’d seen no reason whatsoever to go back since.

“What’s your plan once you finish?” Chris asked him next, moving from one awkward subject to another.

Zach raked a hand through his hair, looking out the windows. “Well, the plan is, I’ll be taking over my uncle’s… family business.”

“And what’s that?”

He sent a warning glare Anton’s wide-eyed freeze before returning with a weary smile, “Consulting.”

“Finance? Law? Management?”

“All of those, really, but um… mostly I’ll be the public relations.”

Chris nodded, watching him skeptically, “And that’s what you really want?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Zach twisted the pen in his fingers with a frown, “It’s what I’m expected to do.”

“So what?” Chris made a slicing gesture, “Forget that. Just throw it out the window. What do you really want to do?”

Feeling blank, Zach merely lifted his shoulders. What he really wanted was to not be King, to not be responsible for twelve centuries of his country’s legacy and its future, to go wherever his whims took him at any given time, and that simply wasn’t an option anymore.

“Isn’t there something you’ve dreamed of? Places you want to go? Stuff you want to do?” Chris persisted.

“I’ve gone wherever I wanted to go, done what I wanted to do,” he said, eyes shifting evasively. “Now I’m going to do consulting.”

“Dude, that’s stupid,” Chris scoffed.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s nepotistic bullshit, is what it is. It’s…” Chris swiveled his hand on his wrist, searching for the right word, “I dunno, it’s almost monarchial.”

Anton choked on a gulp of coffee, and Zach reached over to pound him on the back. “How do you figure?” he inquired, raising his eyebrows with a little smile.

“Just… I mean, my dad’s an actor. My grandma was an actor, and my mom dabbled in it briefly, before I was born. I went to school with kids from acting families, even some whose parents told them not to do it, and they’re doing it anyway. So I get that whole family dynasty thing, you know, the expectation, but you don’t have to do that.”

“Hence, Professor Christopher of all things fairytale?” Zach teased.

“Well, yeah, kind of,” Chris said, “We get told our whole lives to find our dream and go for it. That’s the whole American Dream, which is bullshit for most people, by the way, because somebody has to do the shit jobs no one else wants. And you rich people,” he paused guiltily over the vitriol in his phrasing, but Zach merely gestured for him to go on, “People like you, you just… I dunno, sit on a yacht with your trust funds and sip champagne until you ‘inherit the family business’. By which you pay a bunch of underlings to do most of your dirty work, and you still sit on a yacht.”

Zach’s smile had stretched throughout this progressively stumbling explanation, because he was so wrong and yet so right. “It’s classist, maybe, but I can’t help who I was born to any more than you can. And anyway, we aren’t all layabouts. Certainly if you have a passion, you are welcome to follow it, and many do. Most people work, I’m assuming, because they have the desire and necessary skills to fill a societal niche—like teaching, Professor. And besides, nepotism isn’t limited to the wealthy. A tailor or a chef who passes his family business down through his kids is no less valid than my… consulting.”

“But will consulting fulfill your purpose?” Chris countered.

“I have no idea, to be honest.” Anton launched an eyebrow at him, and Zach’s smile faded. “I guess I have been sitting on a yacht and sipping bubbly, according to you. I don’t know that I have any other passions, at least none that translate to a career.”

“I guess some people never really settle on one thing,” Chris nodded slowly. “Well, it’s not a bad line of work, I guess. If you work on your people skills.”

“Hey!” Zach squawked, “My people skills are excellent.”

“Are they?” Chris pressed, shaking his head. Anton smirked.

“What!?”

“Nothing,” Chris shrugged, “Just, if you’re the face of your company, you gotta to be able to listen, to relate to clients and to the people working for you, and be relatable. You’re a political candidate, in effect; you have to appeal to everybody. Not just the people in your hoighty-toighty social circle, I mean the little guy, you know, whoever is seeking your consulting skills. The tailor and the cobbler. Regular people. And you kind of suck at that. No offense.”

He stared between Chris and Anton, who lifted his shoulders, “He has a point.”

“That’s unfair,” he defended himself, “You and I, we come from different places, and we relate, don’t we?”

Chris blinked at him.

“We do!” Zach insisted, waving a hand between them. “You and I, we have an association.”

“By requirement.”

“But we’re interdependent, right?” he continued, “You need me to help you with Italian, I need you to… to… to teach me basic skills like doing dishes and serving others.”

“Serving others _sandwiches_?” Chris smirked. “That’s a far cry from solving business conflicts and shit, don’t you think?”

Zach snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “Are we not solving problems? You did punch me when we met. Haven’t we solved our initial conflict through cooperation and communication?”

Anton tried to cover a snort, and Chris rolled his eyes, sitting back and crossing his arms. “Look, just because we’re being forced to work together doesn’t mean that conflict is fixed.”

“No?” Zach latched on. If their initial conflict wasn’t resolved, what did that mean? Was there a possibility Chris was interested, but was resisting him just out of spite? He held the challenge in those fiery blue eyes readily, staring him down, and when Chris looked away first with a pretty pink rising to his cheeks, Zach felt his hopes surging. “I guess I’ll just have to be more relatable, Christopher,” he said with a sharp grin.

“Speaking of which,” Anton broke in, “I think I may have your horse.”

 

+

 

As it always did, the school year ramped into overdrive after midterms. Chris got a respectable 84 of of 100 on his Italian exam, on par with his French and Physics exams, and he had to acknowledge that it was largely due to Zach’s help. He had drilled Chris over and over again on sentence structure and tenses with amused patience at Chris’ aggravation, goading him on with coffee and food, and while Chris never thought it would stick, it obviously had. Zach didn’t even ask after his scores to gloat like Chris had expected, so he was he left with that newfound respect after all, and it was less grudging than he’d thought. Zach wasn’t unintelligent, and he obviously had his talents.

With that out of the way, they threw themselves headlong into their project. Anton had gotten a response from the owner of a boarding and training stable in the hills east of town. After some liaising over the phone, they’d borrowed Cho’s car to drive out and meet her, explain their project idea and work out expectations of time in exchange for the paltry amount of money they had at their disposal, with a plan to work off the rest. Zach assured her he’d been riding since he was a kid, as well as including that Chris loved animals (which was true, though he was pretty sure he’d never said so—another point in Zach’s favor for his public relations). It was helpful that the stable owner had a familiarity with the Muybridge experiment herself, and even had some suggestions for how they could accomplish it in a modern setting.

They also met the horse they’d be allowed to use, an old heavy-boned mare named Dazzle. To Chris’ untrained eye, she was kind of ugly, with her big misshapen head, splotchy reddish coat and yellowed mane and tail, ratty and rubbed short and coarse in places. Compared to most of the other sleek and graceful animals in the same stable, she didn’t seem to fit in.

“She used to be a gymnastics horse,” the owner told them. “Bombproof as they come. But she’s getting a little fat now, so some exercise should be good for her.”

Chris patted her thick neck, but mostly kept a wary distance. He wasn’t used to horses, especially one this large, and was more than happy to let Zach handle this part. Zach had seemed initially skeptical of the homely nag himself, but after she was saddled up and he took a couple of test laps around the arena, he was singing her praises and loving on her as if she’d hung the moon.

They spent the next few days buying supplies and making platforms to mount disposable cameras at carefully spaced intervals, making measurements on the placement of the platforms from the opposite wall down which Zach and Dazzle would gallop, experimenting with the framing of each, and trying to figure out the timing—which included cheating and looking up equations previous people who have reproduced the experiments had used. But since animals and speed weren’t always predictable, most of it, they discovered, was pure trial and error.

The hardest part was figuring out their triggering mechanism. The original experiment in the 1880’s used string, which the horse broke through as it ran. They’d discovered the hard way that modern fishing line was obviously too strong to break through on an initial test run without the horse, instead Chris running as fast as he could through the triggers. He had been one of the fastest base runners on his high school baseball team, but speed didn’t make much difference. He’d ended up in a dirty heap halfway down the arena looking like he’d been the trout in a fly-fishing tournament. Zach snickered the whole time he’d helped him get untangled, not to mention the heaping line of cameras they had to check and replace. Chris didn’t think it was so funny.

After that catastrophe, they decided to design a different trigger method entirely. Their final attempt consisted of cheap mousetraps, popsicle sticks, and a crank. It was persnickety as hell and often several cameras didn’t go off at all, it was the best they could come up with.

It was obvious the project was going to take up pretty much all their free time, from now until it was due, and when things weren’t going right, Chris regularly wished he’d just settled for something easier. He could blame Zach all he wanted for coming up with such a grand scale idea in the first place, but he’d agreed, and now it was too late to back out.

At the end of each day, they put in an hour’s worth of stall mucking as payment. One of Chris’ summer jobs had been working part-time for a landscaper, so shoveling and carting heavy wheelbarrows wasn’t a big deal to him, but seeing Zach do it was a surprise. Apparently part of the equestrian classes at his fancy boarding school required the students take care of the animals, yet another sort of hard labor he did without complaint.

Zach’s love affair with Dazzle was more apparent with passing each day. He cooed over her all the time in a low, rumbly rich voice, his big hands always gentle as he stroked over her face and worked tangles from her coarse, raggedy mane. Chris did not wonder if anyone else got that sort of loving attention from him.

“What a pretty girl,” he was simpering at her one day as they wrapped up, “I should take you home with me, hmm? Want to come to Denmark with me?”

“Sheesh,” Chris muttered, breaking down their equipment at the end of one day. “I don’t know that your parents would approve.”

Zach smiled, fishing out a treat from his pocket that she happily crunched through. “I love horses. All animals, really. They don’t care who you are, or who you know. All they care about is if you’re nice to them. Animals always remember kindness,” he smiled, stroking the mare’s nose and looking at her all doe-eyed. “I figure if we make them work for us, the least we can do is take good care of them, give them good things to eat, give them respect.”

Chris paused in breaking down the cameras at that. “So why is it different with people?”

Zach looked from the mare to him, confused, “What do you mean?”

“What about people who work for you?” he said, “You know, when you go take over your uncle’s business, you’re gonna have people working hard for you, people who only stick around in a thankless job because they need the paycheck so they can eat. They’re wondering if you’re going to be nice. Hell, you have Anton, taking care of stuff that you don’t want to deal with. And you kind of treat him like shit, man,” he finished with a shrug. “Just sayin’.”

He turned back to the camera rigs, watching Zach surreptitiously as he frowned, bending to pick up and examine one of Dazzle’s hooves. 

Chris shook his head, putting the cameras in a bag. The guy just didn’t get it, did he?

 

+

 

As much as Zach tried to concentrate on his Humanitarianism homework, Chris’ words stuck in his head like a thorn.

He’d grown up in a place where having people work for and wait on him was both ordinary and expected. Of course he was capable of doing things, even common things for himself. Working at the deli was most definitely something he didn’t enjoy aside from the parts of it he spent in Chris’ company. It was eye-opening to be on the other side of a dishwashing station, or a sandwich rush at lunchtime.

But what Chris had said about Anton had struck a chord. The kid had basically been his constant companion for three years. He did the expected tasks without being told, and despite the occasional sass-back, he rarely complained. He’d gotten Zach out of trouble on more than a few occasions. He hesitated to call Anton a friend, but then, he didn’t really have friends. He’d once had Eddie, but Eddie had been family, and now he was gone. He had acquaintances, people he was expected to associate with because society dictated it, but not anyone who could be considered a confidante, not someone who listened to his problems. Except Anton. That was because he was paid to deal with all of Zach’s dirty laundry—literally and metaphorically—and not talk about what he found there. He was as dependable as… well, as Dazzle the horse. A beast of burden put through menial tasks for the hope of a molasses biscuit. And try as he might, he couldn’t think of a single instance when he’d taken care of Anton instead of the other way around.

When Anton came in, greeting him with the polite and obligatory “Sir,” and began picking up the room, Zach put down his pen to watch.

“What are you doing?” he asked, after a moment.

The kid looked down at the basket of clothes smelling of manure, like it should be obvious. “I’m taking your laundry to be washed, sir.”

Zach closed his book and stood up, pushing his hands in his pockets. “Can I… would you mind if I came with you?”

Anton froze, “What? Why?”

Zach lifted his shoulders, “I just think maybe I should learn how it’s done.”

His eyes widened. “Are you feeling okay, sir?”

“Fine, I just…” Zach smiled tightly at him, this kid who essentially took care of him. “You know, I appreciate everything you do for me. I don’t think I’ve ever told you.”

Shifting the basket, Anton stared. “No, sir, you haven’t.”

“Thank you,” Zach shrugged again. “So, come on, show me how you do this washing and ironing thing.”

Anton gave him a faint smile, lifting his chin to the books he’d left. “You should probably let me handle the ironing, sir. And bring your homework with you. Laundry is really not that exciting.”

“Does it take very long?” Zach turned to gather his books up.

In the laundromat, he had just learned the necessities of learning what the symbols on the tags meant, separating his colors from his whites and the amount of detergent when Anton stopped talking mid-sentence, staring over the washing machines at the entrance. Zach turned to see a girl flash a brief smile in their direction before finding a table and filling a machine with her own wash. 

“So, um, that’s it,” Anton cleared his throat, “Let it go until it buzzes.” He sat at the table they had claimed, pulling a book towards himself with a hot pink face.

Taking his seat, Zach watched as the girl tucked her long hair behind her ear and tossed another cautious smile in their direction, pulling her own studies from a backpack.

“She’s very pretty,” he murmured to Anton with a grin. “Have you talked to her?”

He went even more fuchsia. “I’m… sir, I don’t know that it’s appropriate.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not here for me,” Anton said, “I’m here to help you.”

“You do help me,” Zach sat back, “That doesn’t mean you can’t make a few friends on your own time. It isn’t 24/7.”

“All due respect, sir, it kinda is.”

Zach allowed that, “Okay, but I’ve told you to get lost for years. There’s no reason you can’t have some time for yourself. Meet girls. Have a little fun,” he added with a wink.

Anton spoke through his teeth, “Some people aren’t…” he bit his words back.

“Aren’t what?” he urged at the pause.

“A conquest,” Anton sat up straighter, lifting his chin with a surprising defiance. “Some people deserve more than that. Sir.”

Zach dropped his eyes to his book, not seeing the text. It wasn’t as if he had no idea what Anton was talking about; he’d nursed a few crushes through his years at the boarding school and at university before this. In Europe’s finest, most of them either knew exactly who he was and took him up on some arrangement of convenience, many for the notoriety, or they were straight and totally uninterested in him anyway.

He’d never really known what to do with it. Once the shine wore off, most times he’d ended up finding some place else to be, moving to another country, another school. Distance and some other warm body always seemed to make him forget quickly enough. He didn’t know how to deal with anything more involved, and didn’t want to. Eventually it got to be easier, especially with the interest the media began to take in his personal life. Maybe that made him a prick. Maybe his reputation was well deserved after all.

That hadn’t been the case here. In America, no one knew who he was, not even the press. Chris didn’t know who he was, and even though he knew he came from some type of money, he was roundly unmoved. It was astonishingly refreshing, and challenging at the same time. What did it take to impress the impassive Christopher Pine? The rare occurrence when Chris gifted him one of those megawatt smiles was like Christmas morning. Yeah, he was infatuated.

“And anyway,” Anton continued quietly, “We won’t be here forever, sir. It wouldn’t be fair to start something when we’ll have to go back.”

“Shouldn’t stop you,” he muttered. The idea of going back to Denmark, to the life that awaited him there made something cold settle heavily under his ribs. Anton had options. Many of the court staff must have spouses, and he’d heard plenty of rumors over the years about how the downstairs gossip was as juicy as the upstairs.

He started to gather up his things.

“Sir?”

“I’m gonna go back to the room,” he said, standing to shoulder the bag, “You can show me the rest of this laundry thing another time.” He put a hand on Anton’s shoulder and tilted his head towards the girl, murmuring. “Go talk to her. Have a little fun for a change.”

 

+

 

Cho came out from his bedroom freshly showered as Chris sat at the kitchen counter finishing off an essay for his Russian Lit class. “Gonna go to Kerri’s. You have my keys?”

“Yeah, they’re, uh…” Chris paused to remember. “I think they’re in my jacket.”

As he went to retrieve them from the pocket, he made a disgusted face, “Jesus, this thing stinks like horseshit.”

“‘Cause it’s been around horseshit,” Chris shrugged. “We’re gonna need it back tomorrow afternoon, so don't stay too late.”

Letting out a sigh, Cho came back to the kitchen. “How much longer are you gonna keep stealing my ride?”

“I dunno. Three or four more days, probably. Maybe a couple more than that,” Chris answered, distracted. He looked up to find Cho glaring at him and retorted, “What? You work like four blocks away, dude, it won’t kill you to walk.”

“Yeah? And what about going to Kerri’s, or picking her up?”

“Wow, when was the women’s lib movement again? Is she deeply offended to have to come to you? She’s not that far away either.”

“Hey, chivalry is not dead. Maybe you should learn some. You might get laid more,” Cho said, then feigned recollection, “But oh no, wait! You’re too busy being the studiously celibate professor, chauffeuring your supposed arch-nemesis in my car so he can ride the pretty ponies. My bad.”

“Shut up, man,” Chris said, grabbing another handful of cheetos from the bag beside him and wiping the neon off on his jeans. “It’s not like l want to go take pictures of him, especially when he starts goofing off. You know there’s no way to tell how the pictures come out on those disposables until you get it developed. The last batch we hardly got him in the frame at all. It’s tedious as hell.”

Cho leaned against the opposite counter and eyeballed him skeptically. “You think he’s hot.”

“I _do not_ think he’s hot,” Chris grumbled.

“Nuh-uh,” Cho said. “I know you. I know how you get when it comes to guys. It was the same back in high school with that Taylor guy. It’s been two months, man, and you’re still letting this one chap your ass. If it wasn’t something, you’d have gotten over it by now.”

Chris stared at his essay, pretending not to hear. Cho knew him better than anyone, knew all about Taylor on the baseball team in high school sophomore year who’d spent most of his time on the field antagonizing Chris about how much he sucked at pitching, and how the story changed the first time they’d ended up alone in the equipment room. It turned out, Taylor sucked. At the time, Chris hadn’t had a clue how to handle the disparity between the public show of animosity and the private attraction, he just felt really confused and really turned on and kind of went with it until the year ended, and he never saw the kid again.

“Hell,” Cho leaned in, arching a brow, “I think he’s hot.”

Chris snorted.

“What? I am perfectly capable of looking at another man and recognizing innate hotness,” Cho gestured at him, “You got hot.”

“Whatever, man!” Chris threw a cheeto at him, cheeks stinging. 

“Took you long enough, but it happened.” Laughing, Cho plucked the neon crisp off his shirt and popped it in his mouth, “He thinks you’re hot.”

Chris ignored that too. It wasn't that he didn’t know Zach liked him, he was well aware. It wasn’t even that he didn’t think Zach was hot, objectively. Now just wasn’t the time.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cho muttered, “No distractions for Chris. Blue balling into next year. Tell me, do the shades, like, progress? Is it like a delicate periwinkle working gradually to a deep royal or…?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

 

+

 

“Who is the very best, most beautiful girl in the whole world?” Zach cooed at the mare. He planted a kiss on her velvety nose and she wriggled her big lips into his neck with a nicker, making him giggle.

“You and that horse, man,” Chris shook his head, pulling the last camera off of the stand to put it in the bag. “Get a room.” 

It was officially their last day at the stable. They’d gone through the sequences probably hundreds of times, taken thousands of pictures, and shoveled a whole lot of horseshit. Now they had to put it all together into a video and make a fifteen minute presentation. There was less than a week left before the long Thanksgiving weekend, and Chris wanted to have it done with so he wouldn’t have to worry about it. Then, only one more semester, less than five months left before everything was over, and Chris could throw everything he had into grad school, his dissertation, and the next chapter of the rest of his life.

“What?” Zach said hotly, “I’m going to miss her. She’s a sweetheart, aren’t you, baby?” He looked back, “Didn’t Christopher ever want to be a cowboy?”

“Sure, when I was five,” he laughed, looking the horse over warily, “Changes a bit when you see how big they are up close.”

“Have you ever ridden one?”

“Yeah, at summer camp as a kid. A few other times,” he avoided, picking dirt from under his nails.

Zach chewed his lip contemplatively, leading the horse around to him, “Here. Get on.”

“No,” Chris quickly refused, a flutter of anxiety rippling through him at the thought.

“Come on, get up there,” he goaded, “She’ll take great care of you, I promise.”

“Zach.”

“Christopher,” Zach grinned, “You want to be Prince Charming or not? A prince should know how to ride a majestic steed, right? Look at this lady. Is she not a destrier fit for royalty?”

Huffing at Zach’s ability to needle him with pretty words, Chris looked at the mare again. With her grungy looks, Dazzle was very likely _not_ a horse any royalty would be proud to ride, but she had been wonderfully well-behaved throughout their experiment, docile and easy-going, and she seemed to enjoy their company and attention. Well, Zach’s, anyway. The English-style saddle was different than he was used to; it was smaller than the American type cowboys used, but on the plus side, it didn’t have that thing in the front his junk had had several painful encounters with in his limited past experience.

Zach held her still and tilted the silver stirrup for him to jam his sneaker into, showing him where to grab and haul himself up and over. Once settled in the seat, he wrapped his fingers into the coarse, wiry hair of her mane, holding on as Zach adjusted straps here and there. The mare’s back was broad, he could already feel the stretch in his thighs. She shifted her feet and took a deep breath. He could feel the spread of her ribs like a wine barrel underneath him, a living, thinking, very large animal. He took a breath himself, trying to calm his nerves.

“Now,” Zach said below, “What’s the most important thing about riding?”

“Don’t fall off?” Chris tried nervously.

“Well, not really,” Zach said, “Ride enough and you will fall off at some point. It’s usually fine unless you break something.”

At Chris’ stricken look, he laughed, “All right, you don’t want to fall, I get it. So the most important thing about riding: you and the horse are a team. Think of it like a car, or a motorcycle. You’re in control.”

“I’m in control,” he parroted, “Okay, but a car doesn’t have a brain of its own, Zach. I’m not really in control at all.”

“True, but Dazz is a very well-trained animal and she wants to do what you tell her,” Zach countered him. “Horses are herd animals by nature, they like to follow a leader. Right now, I’m the leader. Are you ready?”

“Okay.”

Zach led the mare to the usual wall, letting Chris get used to the slow movement and rhythm of her thumping hooves, which wasn’t so bad. Then he stopped and put the reins into Chris’ hands, folding his fingers over the supple leather. “See how her ears turn back to you? It means she’s listening, not just to your words—your hands, your legs, your weight are all cues she gets from you. Now you’re the leader.”

“Zach.”

“Relax, you’re not doing anything yet,” he grinned, hands finding Chris’ leg to adjust it. “Now, second most important thing: heels down. All your weight is down here in your heels, not up there on your butt.”

“Heels down,” Chris frowned, trying it on both sides. It felt weird.

Zach moved his foot again, correcting the placement, his hand sliding between Chris’ calf and the horse, “Heels always, always down. When your heels stay down, your leg muscles are engaged, here against the body. Even bareback, no stirrups, you grip with your legs.” He reached up to untangle Chris fingers from the mane where he’d grabbed tightly again, “Just holding on up here doesn’t cut it, and you will fall off if you only rely on your hands. Besides, you need them, this is your steering wheel. Pull left for left, right for right. Both to stop. You won’t have to steer anyway, she’ll just follow the wall. It’s really simple.”

“Uh-huh,” Chris was doubtful.

“Remember, heels down, you’re a team,” Zach said, “So give her a squeeze with your legs. Gently, kicking is Hollywood cowboy stuff.”

At Chris’ nudge, Dazzle moved placidly forward, Zach walking along with them a few feet away. This was easy, the same as any petting zoo ride. He could handle a little more. “Can we go a little faster? Not a lot, just…”

“See, there’s some confidence,” Zach breathed a laugh, backing off farther, “Just nudge her again.”

Chris did, and Dazzle’s ears flickered back to him as she picked up the pace to a brisk walk. He felt a little more at ease already. He could do this. He’d gone faster than this at camp. And that trail ride, although…

He warily nudged, stiffening himself for horrendous jouncing pain that never materialized. Dazzle smoothly switched to a trot without so much as a hitch, though her feet made a different pattern. He squeezed again, and she moved to a slow, rolling canter with a whuffle. He might as well be sitting in his Grammie’s rocking chair. A delighted laugh rippled unbidden out of his mouth. This was actually fun!

“See, what did I tell you?” Zach called out from somewhere nearby, “Smoothest ride in the Wild West, Dazzle the Wonder Horse.”

Chris circled around the arena a couple more times before he decided he was done and realized with a little fear that he’d forgotten how to make the horse stop. “Okay, uh, I wanna stop! Whoa!” he said unsteadily, pulling the reins and nudging his heels again. Dazzle’s ears swiveled back and forth, but then she slowed and turned off the wall, trotting straight back to Zach and dropping her head in his waiting hands.

Kicking his leg over, Chris quickly slid off, feeling keyed up and wobbly, but kind of thrilled. 

“Well, that’s one way,” Zach shrugged, scratching at her forelock. “Not so bad, right?”

Chris shook out his legs and laughed, “That was cool. Scary, but cool.”

“Scary?”

“Well, I mean, you never know if they’re not gonna do what you say and run away with you or something.”

“You told her to go faster, there at the end,” Zach told him. “She didn’t. Actually, you told her to do something a lot more complex, and instead she slowed down and stopped for you anyway.”

Chris frowned at the horse. “Oh.”

“It’s fine,” Zach said. “I did some reading about these gymnastics horses. They have little girls doing flips and cartwheels on their back and stuff, like in the circus. They’re as steady as they come, just hold pace until the act is over. Her training told her when she’s confused to just slow down and return to the main handler. And since she’s smart and she can tell you’re a rookie, she’s decided that’s me.”

“Oh,” Chris said again, reaching tentatively out to pat her, “Sorry, Dazzle.”

She lifted her giant head and wiggled her weird whiskery lips against his neck and cheek with a steamy snuffle, making him cringe and giggle, then whomped her big forehead up against his shoulder.

“See? She likes you,” Zach giggled. 

Dazzle pushed again at his shoulder for attention, nosing at his jeans pockets. “Okay, okay, I like you too,” Chris said, dodging his more personal areas away from her snuffling with a blush. “Not, uh, not like that! Maybe Zach does.”

Snorting, Zach pulled out a molasses biscuit and held it out. “He doesn’t understand our love, does he, baby? You’re certainly the only lady to give me such a good ride. Probably Chris too.”

Repressing an eyeroll, Chris lifted his chin to snark back about that statement. But Zach’s gaze was so unexpectedly soft and tender, and not aimed at the horse, the sarcasm died in his throat.

 

+

 

The day before the long Thanksgiving weekend, Cho was so glad to have his car back that he picked up Chris from work at the Bite.

“My car smells like a barn,” he informed him, as he met him by the rear parking. “I’m gonna make you pay to have it detailed.”

“Or you could open the windows and put in a fucking smelly tree,” Chris retorted, “It’s not that bad.”

“So does your main squeeze have weekend plans?”

“My what?” he blinked, looking over his shoulder where Cho’s eyes led to Zach, still wearing his rubber apron and dragging the kitchen mats out by the dumpsters to be hosed. “He’s not my—I don’t know, why would I know what he’s doing?”

“Oh, well, you asked me, I figure you asked your bestie too. That’s what people do, Pine.”

“He’s not my fucking _bestie_ ,” Chris scowled. “I don’t care what he’s doing.”

“Uh-huh,” Cho said, looking at him sidelong. “Hey, Zach!” he called, heading past before Chris could stop him.

Zach tossed the hose aside and jogged over, “What’s up?”

“Got any plans for Thanksgiving weekend?” Cho asked, ignoring the daggers Chris was glaring at him.

“Oh,” Zach squinted back at the mats, “Yeah, um, no. Not really.”

“You’re not going home? To Denmark or wherever?”

“No, I thought I’d just hang out here. See the local traditions, I guess.”

“Fun! Most places are closed,” Cho commented, “But I hear the local Denny’s does a turkey plate. All the fixings for $8.99!”

“Really?” Zach looked so genuinely interested, Chris’ stomach hurt just thinking about what a mean joke Cho was trying to play.

“Quit being an ass,” he shot at Cho, mumbling, “You can’t spend Thanksgiving like that.”

“Like what?”

Zach’s confused gaze slid between them, and Chris lifted his shoulders. “You could… I guess you could come down with me. To my parents’. In LA.”

As soon as he said it, he regretted it, but Zach was already giving him a surprised smile. “Really? I would… I would really like that.”

“You would?”

“Yeah, I’d enjoy that,” he straightened, nodding formally, “Thank you, Chris.”

“I… yeah, okay,” Chris stumbled, a little stunned he’d accepted so readily, “So, text me and we’ll arrange.”

“I will.”

Cho had wandered away, smirking to himself, and Chris dragged him off by the back of his collar. “Asshole.”

 

+

 

“I can’t allow you to go on your own, sir,” Anton insisted, so early on Wednesday morning the sun wasn’t even close to the horizon. It was the first time Zach had woken up first, with Anton still in his pajamas, “It’s my duty.”

“Anton, is anyone breathing down your neck about me out here?” Zach gave his cheek a healthy pat as he packed a bag. “Anyway, I won’t be on my own. I’ll be with Chris.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

“At his parents’ house, I’m assuming with his family present,” Zach reminded him. “I’ll be on my best behavior, I swear. Do you really think he’ll let me get away with anything less?”

Anton exhaled, still frowning, “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

Zach looked around for anything else to bring, softening at Anton’s confusion. “Take a well-deserved vacation. Go see your family. How long has it been, huh? They’re Americans now, don’t they do this Thanksgiving thing?”

Anton looked conflicted, “I don’t… we don’t see each other very much.”

“And that’s my fault,” Zach told him, “So maybe you should visit them.” Anton met his eyes warily, and it occurred to him that he knew literally nothing about Anton’s family life. Was that something he was supposed to know, or was it not his business? He shrugged, “Or not, you know… you should just do something for you, though. Don’t worry about me.” He turned back, zipping the bag, “I can’t be the only one having all the fun.”

After a long, awkward pause, Anton spoke quietly. “You should tell him, you know.”

Zach knew without asking what he meant, but didn’t acknowledge it, layering his toiletry bag in over his sweaters and zipping the bag shut. He shouldered it, looking around one last time before putting a hand on the doorknob and sending Anton one last nod. “See you in a few days.”

As he headed down the stairs, he pondered the idea. But no, even as difficult as it had been to maintain the farce, he doubted he could come clean now. There had been so many opportunities, and at everyone of them, it had been clear Chris would have resented him for it. Now that he’d managed to get closer to him, the lie would be all the worse. Chris was so perceptive to begin with, and Zach knew he was oblivious to his own tells. If Chris thought of them as friends at all, he didn’t want to lose what little he had.

Zach had never been very good at looking at the future. He’d never had to before. Once upon a time, he could go anywhere, do anything, have anyone, and just as easily move on. He’d never had to put down roots, and he’d found over time that doing so had a tendency to hurt if they got snapped off. It had been so much easier to simply drift from place to place. 

All that was gone now, his future lodged in stone where it was going to be tended and pruned and fussed at like one of Razz’s prized orchids, trained and grown to immaculate specifications. He knew, if he looked at it hard enough, that Chris wasn’t going to be there. He knew he shouldn’t pursue it any farther, for his own sake. For Chris’s sake too. For the first time in his life, he truly understood that his own actions had consequences for others, and that was a discomfiting thought.

Truthfully, he was afraid Chris would figure him out sooner or later, and this weekend could very well be his undoing.

Yet it wasn’t in his nature to give up. He was used to getting whatever he wanted. Chris had been the first to challenge him, and he found he reveled in the chase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fairytale Chris paraphrases has tons of different versions, including The Peasant's Wise Daughter, Clever Elsie, the German Brothers Grimm version, and Clever Katya, a Russian version.
> 
> The one Chris is referencing is [The Clever Girl Italian fairytale.](http://www.italiansrus.com/etexts/clevergirl_page1.htm)
> 
> Dazzle was a real horse I used to ride in lessons a long time ago. Ugly as hell, but an angel, and smooth as butter.


	5. Something There (That Wasn't There Before)

If Chris wasn’t sure about inviting Zach along before, he grew more skeptical on the day-long train ride down to Los Angeles. They’d been reasonably quiet on the bus into Oakland Station, far too early for more than bleary yawns and coffee, but once they’d boarded the train and were on their way, Zach had apparently woken up enough to begin asking questions: Were his parents still married? How long had they been together? Had he lived in California his whole life? How many siblings did he have? Would they be there?

Somewhere in the midst of answering and catching himself including more anecdotes than strictly necessary, Chris began to realize something odd. For all the time they spent together, and as often as they snipped and snarked back and forth over the last few months, they’d generally avoided anything terribly personal. Chris could chalk it up to not tapping his curiosity about Zach, but still. Here he was now, bringing the guy to a largely family-oriented holiday, where chances were his well-meaning but nosy parents and sister would have all sorts of questions, and he didn’t know any of the answers.

Well, Zach would have to fend for himself. He certainly didn’t seem the least bit nervous, but then he never did. Luckily, by the time they’d knocked over the lunch car, he’d seemed to exhaust his questioning, and they’d both spent a couple hours of the afternoon quietly on homework before they’d pulled in at the station and then caught several buses out of the city proper, across the hills and into the burbs until a final cab deposited them at his parents’ front door.

He rapped a pattern on the unlocked door before walking in, the dog excitedly wuffing her way to the entry as his mother appeared in the hallway.

“Ah, you made it early!” she held her arms out, taking him up in a warm hug.

“A little bit,” Chris shuffled back, seeing her eyes shift to Zach, polite but obviously surprised, “Mom, this is Zach Quinto.”

She put her hand out, “Hello, Zach.”

His dad poked curiously out from the kitchen as Zach took his mom’s hand very reverently, bowing his head like he was greeting a queen, his other hand neatly tucked in the small of his back. “A pleasure, Mrs. Pine.”

“Wow. So nice to meet you as well, Mr. Quinto,” she teased gently at his formality.

He was different with his dad, who strode up, putting a hand out with his usual kind smile and introducing himself, “Bob Pine.” 

Their handshake was strong, Zach’s shoulders straight and making eye contact with his chin up instead of the genuflection he’d given his mother. “An honor, sir, thank you.”

His mom sent Chris an impressed smirk over her husband’s shoulder as he gave his Pop a hug as well.

Chris cleared his throat, “Zach’s here on exchange from Denmark. He’s never done Thanksgiving before, and he didn’t really have anywhere else to go, so…”

“Oh! Well, we’re more than happy to have you,” his mom graciously exclaimed.

“Thank you, Mrs. Pine,” Zach bowed his head again, “You’re too kind.”

“And you’re too sweet, but it’s just Gwynne, hon,” she waved him off with a wink. “Mrs. Pine was my mother-in-law.”

Zach smiled bashfully at the floor, very nearly demure with her, “Forgive me. I’m not used to addressing a lady informally.”

Chris suppressed an eyeroll at that bullshit. But his mother was blushing, mouthing _a lady_ at her snickering husband, obviously thoroughly charmed.

“How was the trip in?” his dad redirected, after she’d made some excuse about the laundry buzzing.

“Okay,” Chris said, “The 101’s not too bad, but we were going faster than the traffic in the bus lane.”

“I’m not surprised. Katie called a while back, they’ve been sitting on the 405 for hours,” his dad lifted his coffee mug, indicating he was empty and went for a refill. “Why they went that way, I don’t know,” he called over his shoulder.

Zach turned to Chris and raised his eyebrows as they were left by the entry in the living room, his mom’s tubby shih-tzu still sniffing around his ankles and barking hoarsely up at them in demand to be noticed. Each _arf_ made her front feet leave the floor.

“And this little sausage right here,” he scooped the dog into his arms like a baby, “Is Princess Clementina.”

“Ahh,” Zach took a floppy paw and neatly bowed over it, “Enchanted, your Highness.” Chris snickered, setting her down again and watching her wag up at them with her excessively long tongue hanging out. 

“Who named her that?” his mother walked back in with a basket of laundry, stopping to stuff the sofa cushions back into their fresh decorative covers, sending a wry look at her son.

Chris felt his own cheeks go pink, looking down at the happy dog.

“When you were a kid?” Zach asked.

“She’s only four years old,” his mom put in, taking up her basket again, “We got her as a puppy the year Chris finished high school.”

Zach stifled a giggle, covering his grin. 

“Oh, Katie just texted. They’ve finally made it through the mess on the freeway, so they ought to be here shortly.” She looked apologetic between them, “With her and David in the guest room and Luca on the trundle, I’m afraid I’ll have to make up the sofa for one of you. Unless…”

She peered at Chris curiously, who hastily shook his head behind Zach’s back. He wasn’t about to get suckered into sharing his bed with Zach while his parents and sister’s family were in the house. He hadn’t even done that with Cho past middle school, not after his mom had basically figured him out before he could figure himself out and told him it was fine, with some new rules about sleepovers. She narrowed her eyes at him nonetheless.

“That will be fine, Mrs. Pine,” Zach replied graciously, “Your sofa will be a welcome decadence from the dorm room bunks, I’m sure.”

She laughed, patting his arm, though she threw last skeptical squint in Chris’ direction on her way out of the room.

“Sorry,” Chris said with a wince. “It’s a fold-out. There’s like a mattress—”

“Chris,” he stopped him, “Scandinavia is the magical realm of IKEA.”

“Right,” Chris snorted, “Uh, so I guess I’ll give you the tour.”

He hefted his bag over his shoulder, picking up Zach’s to lead the way.

“Bathroom’s through here, and there should be towels in the cabinet,” he pointed as they headed down the longer wing of the L-shaped house. “That’s my dad’s office. Guest room—used to be Katie’s. My parents’ room is at the end. And uh, this is me.”

It was just as he’d left it in the summer, down to the scatter of post-its on his desk, random ideas to work into his eventual thesis. Zach flattened one or two to read, looking around at the posters of classic cars and old movies. “Is this the house where you grew up?”

“Yeah. Well, they moved here when I was two, so it’s the only house I remember,” Chris amended, “It isn’t much. Most people think when your dad is an actor, you must have grown up in a mansion in the Hills, not a bungalow in Sherman Oaks.” A modest single story home like this was probably downright provincial to Zach.

“Mansions aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” Zach said, surprisingly. “Too big. You can’t manage without a staff.”

“You’d know, huh? Family of ‘certain wealth’ or whatever that means,” Chris half-heartedly sneered, “What do they do, anyway? Or do they even have to…?”

“Do they have to work?” Zach lifted his chin, a trace of the usual bravado, but at his own expense. “No. It’s family money, if that’s what you mean, investments made generations ago. But my mother is fond of philanthropy. She works with various children’s charities and orphanages, particularly to help displaced children of war—she’s working with refugee organizations for Syria and Lebanon, at the moment.”

“Oh,” Chris suddenly felt small and insignificant. “And your dad?”

“He died when I was seven,” Zach said with an expression that said the subject wasn’t terribly painful, but not up for discussion. “But he was as you’ve described; the high life, yachts and champagne, gambling and leisure. My father had a… questionable reputation. Much to the displeasure of my mother’s family.”

“Huh.” Chris felt simultaneously awkward and annoyed, as usual around Zach, wondering how easy life must be when you have so much money you can wipe your ass with it and still give some away. “And they cut you off?”

Zach shrugged, looking down at the old green carpeting, “I guess they’re teaching me a lesson in humility.”

“Is it working?”

His eyes came back up, surprisingly free of the usual smugness. “You tell me.”

Chris didn’t answer, instead busying himself with hanging his jacket while covertly watching Zach look around his childhood room, approaching the cheap and out-of-date cardboard globe he’d had for years, stuck full of pins. He touched a blue one near the city of Copenhagen. “What are these places you’ve marked?”

Chris came over, “It’s places I want to go, places I’ve studied. For instance, did you know that you can visit the house where Hans Christian Andersen grew up?”

“Yes, I did know that, in fact,” Zach smiled roguishly. “A lot of Danish schoolchildren go there on day trips at least once.”

“Including you?”

“Um, no,” Zach pocketed his hands, looking down as he bounced on his heels, “I spent most of my primary education with private tutors, and then I went to a boarding school with my cousin in France.”

Chris snorted, “That explains a lot.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah,” Chris looked back squarely, “You have that home-schooled mentality.”

“Oh really. And what mentality is that?” Zach narrowed his eyes.

Chris lifted a shoulder and turned away, uncomfortable, “Nothing, just… you don’t know much about how other people live. Regular people. You do superficially, but you don’t have any firsthand experience about… life, out here.”

Zach had that haughty amusement in his eyes that Chris could never read, as he replied, “You’re pretty much right about everything, aren’t you, Christopher?”

It made him wonder if he was actually totally wrong and talking out of his ass. Luckily, his mom called them out from the living room—Katie and her family had just driven up.

 

“Uncle Chris! Uncle Chris!” 

As Luca barreled over the lawn from the car, Chris caught him and fell backward with an _oof_ in the grass at impact, feigning the kid’s strength. “Oh man, I’m down! TKO!”

“Uncle Chris, I lost my tooth in the car!”

“You did? Show me!” Chris sat up with the kid in his lap, who grinned wide to poke at the empty space of his upper gums. “Oh my god. Did you save it?”

“In my pocket!” Luca dug it out proudly. 

“Dude! You better remember to put it under your pillow tonight,” Chris exclaimed, lifting him up and setting him on his feet, “I bet you get a whole five bucks for that sucker.”

He dusted grass clippings off his pants with a grin as he hugged his sister. “Jerk,” she muttered in his ear, “You can play Tooth Fairy for that.”

Laughing, he shook hands and bro-hugged Katie’s husband David. The guy had always been kind of quiet and reserved, but he’d finally started to loosen up a bit at these family get-togethers since the rugrat had gotten bigger. Luca was six now, and according to their parents, as much of a whirlwind as they both had been at the same age. They both gave him big hugs and exclaimed over his tooth as well, until attention started to shift.

“Zach, this is my sister Katie, and that’s David. Zach’s from Denmark, he’s going to school out here,” he introduced, and they all shook, more casually than with his parents.

“And this is Luca, of course,” he added, palming his nephew’s head like a basketball.

Zach put out a hand to him as well, “Hi.”

Luca shook it with no hint of shyness, though he said nothing in return, just squinting up at him in the failing sunlight. Zach raised an eyebrow, “You know, in Denmark, when we lose our teeth, we put them in a water glass for the Tooth Fairy. You wouldn’t want it to get knocked off the bed where she couldn’t find it.”

“Where’s Denmark?” Luca asked, as David and their parents went to unload the car.

Chris glanced at Zach and scrubbed at Luca’s curls, “It’s on the other side of the world, kiddo.”

“Then how come you talk English?”

Chris laughed to cover a cringe, “Luca, Denmark and England are pretty much neighbors, they’re good buddies, I bet. I’ll show you on a map.”

Zach looked from Chris to Luca with a wide grin, “I was taught to speak many languages, starting from when I was about your age,” he explained.

“What for?”

He put his hands on his knees to lean down to Luca’s level, raising both brows conspiratorially, “Because, a thousand years ago, my people were great world explorers. They sailed in ships and discovered a whole bunch of places. We called ourselves _beilfolknengin i Valhalla_ , sons of Odin.”

Luca gasped, eyes going wide, “Like Thor?”

“Well, Thor’s technically a demigod, so consider me just a bit under that,” Zach made a shelving gesture indicating he was only _slightly_ under. Chris rolled his eyes and ignored his sister’s speculating eyeball.

“Okay, Luca, how about we go find Clem?” she insisted. The sun was on its way down, making an orangey gloam on the horizon as the neighborhood lights began to wink on.

“But Mom, he’s a Viking! A real live one, from your show!”

She squeezed his shoulder, “From a show mommies watch when little Asgardians shouldn’t sneak out of bed!”

“Asgard is where gods live, Mom,” Luca corrected in exasperation. “Midgard is where humans have Viking TV shows.”

“Whatever, let’s go in and wash up for dinner,” Katie steered him towards the door.

Zach winked when Luca stared back over his shoulder as Katie physically led him off. “He’s way cleaner than they are,” he commented as they reached the door. 

Chris blurted a laugh. “Zach, Luca. Kids, huh? You want one?”

“Do you?” Zach looked back.

“Someday, sure, I love that little guy,” he looked fondly after his nephew, then back at Zach for reciprocation, but he awkwardly averted his eyes. Chris changed the subject. “You never talk much about your Vikingness, Mr. Italian.”

“Half, remember. Although, the theory goes that the Phoenicians visited Scandinavia, and a thousand years later, we went back on Mediterranean trade routes. Plus we populated the British Isles, too, somewhere in there. So it’s all relative.”

Chris snorted. “Fucking Vikings. I bet you think you discovered America too.”

“We did,” Zach lifted his chin haughtily, “Five hundred of years before your namesake, Christopher.”

Chris stepped up into his space, challenge accepted. “North America was ‘discovered’ and populated ten thousand years before Leif Eriksen got here, just so you know. Also, he was probably Icelandic. His father, Erik the Red, was Norwegian, and he only left because he was exiled for murder.” When Zach looked impressed, Chris angled a thumb at his own chest. “Lit major. I did a paper on the Sagas in my sophomore year.”

“I should never underestimate you,” Zach submitted, eyes dropping to his mouth at their proximity. 

Chris stepped back, clearing his throat and heading inside, “You really shouldn’t.”

 

Once bags were settled in rooms and the dog had excitedly brought every toy in her basket to each person for examination, approval and tuggies, Gwynne went to get the phone and make the order.

“Guys, what are we getting?”

“Chicken and artichoke!” Chris bellowed.

“Nooooo,” Luca whined, pouting to near tears. “Yucky!”

“Shhh, we’re getting plain cheese for you already!” Katie admonished.

Zach looked quizzically to Chris. He grinned and explained, “This is our Turkey Eve tradition. Pizza and movie night.”

“Chicken and artichoke?” Zach questioned, throwing that patented brow at him.

Smirking, Chris called over to his mother, “Get the Pecorino Sardo, too, Ma.” He matched the brow with his own. “Sausage, olives and capers. Italian enough for you?”

“We’ll see,” Zach looked at the rest of the family, “If it’s an American tradition, far be it for me to protest.”

“More a Pine tradition,” Katie grinned, flopping down beside her brother. “You’re about to find out why Chris’ nickname is Princemmmph.”

Chris looped his arm around his sister’s neck to muffle her mouth, and was equally unperturbed when she went for the old tongue trick before she turned to old-fashioned slap fighting until he let go.

“Children!” Gwynne scolded, hanging up with the pizza place, “How old are you two?”

“Not old enough to stop bickering,” Bob lifted his eyes to the ceiling, “What are we watching this year?”

“ _A Charlie Brown Christmas!_ ”

“ _A Christmas Story!_ ”

“We did that last year!” Chris argued, “ _The Princess Bride!_ ”

“YEAH!” Luca howled from the floor, and Chris leaned over to high-five him.

“We’ve been overruled for the past two years, it’s time, isn’t it, kiddo?”

“YEAH.”

“Fine,” Katie protested, but barely. For this family, watching _The Princess Bride_ required recitation and occasionally reenactment, and Luca was quickly learning the ropes by observance. 

Once the pizzas arrived and plates, napkins, beer, wine and juice were divvied out around the living room, the lights were dimmed and the movie started.

His parents sat together on the loveseat, tolerating it as they had for years. Zach and David sat eating and watching with something close to exasperation on David’s part and puzzled amusement on Zach’s.

It didn’t take long for everyone to join in on favorite parts. Zach must have seen the movie at some point, because when Luca hopped up in excitement to mime the sword fight (Chris let him be the Dread Pirate Roberts), he called out pointers, and he was saying “Inconceivable!” along with Vincini and everyone else in the room.

But once they’d escaped to the edge of the Fire Swamp, it all changed course.

“ _You mocked me once, never do it again!_ ” Chris declared vehemently along with Buttercup, clutching a hand dramatically to his heaving bosom, “ _I died that day!_ ”

“Sure you don't want to be an actor, son?” Bob commented archly.

Zach’s whole face squinched up as he giggled, and as Buttercup shoved Westley down the embankment, he looked at Chris instead of the TV, mouthing the words, “ _Aaaaaasssss youuuuuuu wissssssssshhh!_ ” 

And Chris’ heart set right off. 

Well, fuck. It was enough to subdue him for the rest of the movie. Mostly. He couldn’t resist Inigo’s _You Killed My Father_ moment, or the final _To the Pain_ speech anymore than the rest.

Peter Falk ended the story: _“Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five kisses that have been rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.”_

Gwynne and Bob shared a kiss on the sofa, as was their tradition as the credits rolled.

“Blah! Gross!” Luca squealed, covering his eyes and peeking through his fingers. His own parents kissed just to spite him, and the kid rolled on the floor, covering his face in disgust.

Everyone laughed, Zach catching Chris’ eye again. The heat he saw there caught him off guard. His stomach gave a weird squiggle and he concentrated back on the credits. Suddenly it felt like Zach was a little too close to home. Of course he was, Chris had invited him.

“Chris,” his mom stood up, giving him a decisive look, “Come help me with the dishes.”

He ducked his head with a sigh and hauled himself up, unable to mount a whiny protest in company. Katie shot him a wink and distracted Zach with some vapid inquiry, designed to keep him occupied while giving their mom a wide opening to ask her juicy questions—to which his prying sister would no doubt be privy later. He gathered the empty glasses and bottles as she took up plates, dutifully following to the kitchen. _Here it comes,_ he thought to himself.

She let him take over the dishes and got started on the inevitable. “Well, he’s certainly a very nice boy.” Chris snorted as she busied herself putting bottles he rinsed in the recycling and tossing napkins while he scrubbed the plates. “Very handsome,” she added with a knowing look.

“Mom, we aren’t dating,” he grumbled, “He’s just my lab partner in science class. That’s all.”

“Hey, I wasn’t implying anything, you made that jump all by yourself,” she countered with a sidelong glance. “Do you want to be dating?”

“No!” he protested.

She smirked, “Does he want to?”

“Mom,” he racked the dunked plates in the dishwasher, “I told you before, I’m not messing around this year. I just want to be done.”

“Hmm. And yet, you thought to invite him to meet your family for Thanksgiving,” she remarked.

“Only because he’d be eating fast food with the old folks otherwise. I just did the guy a solid. I’m polite like that.”

“Oh, now I think you’re giving yourself too much credit. A polite young man would offer your bedroom to your guest and _you_ take the sofa,” she shot him a scathing look. “Come to think of it, you could have politely informed your mother you were bringing someone in the first place.”

“The sofa is comfy! There’s nothing wrong with it!” he defended. “It was a last minute invite anyway, I didn’t think about it much.”

“I swear to god, did I raise you in a barn?” she lamented, “He has immaculate manners. None of your other friends have ever been so polite.”

He let out an annoyed sound. None of his other friends were European blue bloods either.

“Fine, fine, I’m not allowed to psychoanalyze my kid’s sketchy behavior and jump to conclusions, I get it,” she gave up. 

He pulled the drain and swiped at the drips around the sink, giving a breath of relief. 

“It must be some chemistry class, that’s all I can say,” she murmured quietly, bumping him with her hip and pinching his side, “You could do worse.”

“Mom…”

She left him flailing for an explanation between branches of science, then roped him into her yearly dinner pre-prep, putting together the sides while she prepared green bean casserole and candied yams so she’d only have to bake them for tomorrow.

Afterwards, it appeared Katie was working to convince Luca that much like Santa, the Tooth Fairy wouldn’t come if he didn’t go right to sleep. The kid wasn’t buying it, despite having already been allowed to stay up well past his normal bedtime.

“Santa has to come down the chimney and eat the cookies and he’s big and fat so he makes a lot of noise, but the Tooth Fairy’s little, so it wouldn’t even matter if I was in bed,” he protested.

“Alright kid,” Chris proclaimed, grabbing him up and airplaning him down the hall to his sister’s room, where the pull-out trundle was pushed against the other wall and made up. He landed him on it, helping him under the covers. “Did you know that the Tooth Fairy is different depending on where in the world you are?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, “ And you know why? ‘Cause, the Tooth Fairy doesn’t do all the work herself like Santa. You know, millions of kids all over the world lose teeth every single day, not just one day a year. So that’s a whole lot more work, right?”

“I guess so.”

“So the Tooth Fairy has helpers like Santa’s elves. But her helpers are all different kinds of fairies, and they don’t all look like fairies. In some places, she has little mice that come get your teeth, and in other places, they’re all kinds of other critters like gnomes and other stuff.”

“What about Vikings?”

Chris pulled up blank, and seeing Luca’s eyes dart over his shoulder, where Zach was lingering in the doorway with his toiletry bag in hand. He stepped inside, giving Chris a hesitant look. “Well, I told you about the water glass, right? But that’s a new tradition. It used to be different in the olden days.”

“How?”

“Well, it used to be that great Viking warriors would pay children for their teeth, because they would bring them good luck in battle,” Zach said, lifting his shoulders. “But you might be too young for the rest.”

“Awww!” Luca protested, “No I’m not! I’m six!”

Zach bit his lip and quirked an eyebrow at Chris, and at his sister, watching from the door before he came closer and knelt by the bed. “I bet you know that Valhalla is the greatest place, right?” Luca nodded, and Zach went on, “Well, the Tooth Fairy lives there. And when a Viking warrior finally got there, it was his responsibility to give all the teeth from all the children he’d brought with him to her.”

Luca stared, wide eyes darting between them. “Is… is that the real reason you came?” he whispered, clutching the envelope with his tooth in it. “Are you gonna take my tooth to Valhalla?”

Zach stifled a grin, shaking his head. “Nah, I’m not ready to go to Valhalla yet. I still have a lot to do here in Midgard. But you put that under the pillow so the Tooth Fairy’s helpers can come get it tonight.”

“No, I want to put it in a water glass,” Luca demanded, ripping the sealed envelope open and dumping his tooth into his little palm. “Mom, I need a water glass.”

“Okay,” Katie said, lifting her palms helplessly. “But then you have to go right to sleep! We’re all going to bed soon, right?”

“Right,” Chris nodded, “So nighty-night!”

Back in the hall, he glanced at the toiletry bag in Zach’s hand, awkwardly gesturing to the bathroom, “You’re the guest, you go first. My mom’ll get an ulcer if you don’t.”

“All right,” Zach chuckled and nodded, “So, goodnight, Christopher.”

His eyes were like embers in the dim of the hall, and Chris couldn’t figure out how to feel about it. “G’night.”

He waited until everyone else had their turn, because hey, he was polite, dammit. He could hear soft voices from the living room, his mother’s and Zach’s, while she was making up the sofa bed for him. He hoped nothing embarrassing was the subject of that conversation.

He brushed his teeth, peering critically at his skin and deciding he could probably leave his contacts in another night.

As he left the bathroom, Katie was waiting outside of it in her PJ’s, eyebrows raised, “So?”

“So what?”

“Who’s your boyfriend?” she stage-whispered.

“ _Not_ ,” he emphasized in a hush, and pushed past her for his own door, “Not my boyfriend.”

“Nuh-uh,” she followed, squeezing in before he could shut her out. “I call bullshit.”

“Good for you, you’re still wrong,” he shot back, quickly tackling and throwing her over his shoulder, which was endlessly amusing now that he was bigger and stronger than she was instead of the other way around, and even her shrieks and attempts to land a blow didn’t hinder him from dumping her back out in the hall. He pointed to the sign that was still taped to his door after all these years, proclaiming _Sisters will be summarily evicted from the premises._ “Still applies,” he grinned, and shut the door in her face.

Taking a deep breath, he flicked the light off and fell back on his old bed, staring up at the dark ceiling.

This was ridiculous. Completely. Zach was annoying, haughty, smug, up his own ass. Even with all the shit he’d pulled tonight, being so earnestly formal with his parents, a perfectly polite houseguest, and the heated looks; it should be as irritating as ever. 

And it wasn’t. It made him feel something else entirely.

He didn’t know why the environmental change and his family’s assumptions made any difference. But somehow they did.

 

+

 

He woke up early, used to that Thursday-morning-at-dawn class by now. Or maybe he’d just reverted back to his summer schedule being back here at home, often heading out for a jog before he went to work for the landscapers. It had done good things for his look, he had to admit. He had more stamina and was pretty proud of his upper body these days, not that his little tummy ever left. Thanksgiving wasn’t going to help that either, but fuck it. He could go for a good run and even it out.

He got up and went to pee, immediately aware of the deep, rumbly murmur of a new voice in his childhood house: Zach’s voice.

He paused in the mouth of the hallway at the sight he found in the living room. They were both sitting on the fold-out, blankets pushed out of the way, Zach with his long legs crossed and Luca’s tucked underneath him. A pile of cards occupied the sheets between them, while cartoons ran on the television.

“You got any threes?”

“Go fish,” Zach’s low voice answered.

Both sported spectacular examples of bedhead, which combined with his Hulk pajamas made Luca pretty adorable; the kid had his sister’s dark wavy curls, long enough to pass for a hobbit, the Pine blue eyes and a hefty spattering of his dad’s freckles. In contrast, Zach’s tousled mess topped off a scruffily shadowed jaw, his long, lean body in a grey t-shirt and dark flannel pants to large bare feet. Chris was so used to seeing him all buttoned up in his designer clothes.

He licked his dry lips and pulled his eyes back to Luca, stepping out of the shadows to scrub the kid’s wild hair into an even bigger mess. “Morning,” he nodded to Zach's smile up at him. “Lu, it’s kinda rude to wake up a guest this early, don’t you think?”

Luca shrugged, studying his new cards. Zach pushed his fingers against his hairline, bangs flopping in sections to his brows, softening his appearance, “He’s no bother. Your mom was up before him, actually,” he said, “She did something in the kitchen and went back to bed, I think. I pretended to sleep through it.”

“Probably put the bird in the oven,” Chris checked the kitchen, and sure enough, the turkey was already set for its long slow roast. He turned instead to the cupboards. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

Chris started a pot perking and then dug into the fridge, coming out with a couple of the leftover pizza boxes. He grabbed a few slices and a pair of paper towels before strolling back to the living room. Zach had just collected three sevens.

“Want some pizza, kiddo?” he asked around a bite.

“Yeah!”

“Okay, but come down on the coffee table,” he urged, setting a slice of Luca’s plain cheese on the napkin for him, “No greasy fingers on Zach’s bed, huh?”

Zach made a scrunchy face, “Cold pizza?”

“Straight from the fridge, man,” Chris lifted his slice, sitting in the spot Luca had vacated, “Breakfast of champions.”

Zach’s expression was highly suspect, a little bleary-eyed and… really attractive, actually. Chris turned to Luca again, “Zach obviously doesn’t grasp the merits of congealed cheese and sweaty dough, buddy.”

Luca giggled around his own bite, and Chris held out the second slice of his own chicken and artichoke, “Come on, don’t knock it ’til you try it.”

Instead of taking the slice for himself, Zach’s hand reached out to steady Chris’ as he leaned to take a small, experimental bite. He sat back, warm hand leaving Chris’ to catch a piece of solid cheese slipping off the saucy crust and push it into his mouth.

Chris raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry, and Zach tilted his head, chewing, swallowing, and shrugging noncommittally, making Chris laugh.

Zach’s gaze caught his again, “I guess I’ll need a lot of cold pizza in the mornings to be fully converted.” He sucked the sauce off his finger, lips sliding around it with a suction sound.

The innuendo didn’t go over Chris’ head, another flutter in his stomach at the spark in Zach’s eyes. He looked over at Luca again, “Hey, did the Tooth Fairy come last night?”

“Yeah, but I only got a dollar,” the boy lamented, eyes on his TV show.

“Only a dollar,” Chris grinned, “Your mom and I only got a dime! Even the Tooth Fairy’s costs are inflated.” He flashed his eyes up to Zach, watching him bite his lip in a smile before he got up again to see if the coffee was done. Zach followed him.

“So, uh,” he started, “Dinner is usually more like a late lunch today, so it’s better not to eat too much breakfast, but if you wanted something else…”

Zach accepted the mug Chris offered, moving aside to let him get to the sugar while he pulled the milk out for his own. When Zach appeared close at his side before he shut the fridge, he almost jumped. Zach smiled at him, finding the box holding the remains of the sausage pizza. He bit into the last cold slice and smiled close-lipped around his chewing, eyes dancing with that dark beckoning intensity. 

Chris’ own dropped to the floor, cheeks going warm. He covered it with a sip of coffee, clearing the roughness from his throat, “I was thinking of going for a run, actually.”

“Do you mind company?” Zach asked.

“Do you run?”

“Not really,” he smiled, taking another bite. “Maybe I should.”

“Think you can keep up?” Chris challenged him.

Zach lifted his chin to look at him from under his eyelashes. “I’m happy to give chase, if that’s what you want, Christopher.”

An hour later, after they’d stopped at the water fountains in the park by Chris' old elementary school, Zach pulled up and leaned on his knees beside him. “I think you’re trying to kill me,” he gasped.

“Serves you right,” Chris laughed. “Come on, don’t you have your own personal trainer, probably your own personal gym too?”

Zach took several deep breaths and shook his head. It was far warmer down here than in Berkeley, even in the morning, and the sweat slicking his hair flicked off, “You forget, my current address is Putnam Hall. Complete with moldy bathrooms. No gym.”

Chuckling, Chris turned them back toward home, picking up his previous pace, “Tell you what, you can have the first shower.”

“What a gentleman,” Zach huffed, following after him.

Another hour of Zach complaining on the way back, and Chris gave him the bathroom, downing water in the kitchen until his mom told him to get his stinky ass out while she was cooking. He took his own turn in the shower, dressed in fresh clothes and headed back out to see what everyone else was up to. His dad, also banished from the kitchen, was chattering football with David, the pair of them in the living room with half an eye on the pre-game shows.

Searching for a place to be, Chris spotted movement outside in the backyard through windows of the breakfast nook, and headed to the greenhouse.

He could only kind of remember when this room had been little more than a porch off the back of the house. He’d been very young when his dad had spent a good several weeks framing it in, installing windows and shades, and filling it with flower boxes and pots and shelves. Now it was one of the nicest places in the house, like a little indoor rainforest of their own. His mom had gotten really into growing orchids and other tropical plants, and they thrived in here.

Out on the grass, he could see Luca, Zach and the dog, running around and then facing off.

“Is he teaching my kid to fence?” Katie's voice appeared at his side.

Chris grinned, watching Zach go through a series of what definitely looked like parries and lunges with branches his dad must have pruned from the Japanese Cherry in the corner, Luca trying to mirror each move while the dog looked on, wagging and hoping for a stick to be thrown. “Looks that way.”

“It’s bad enough he’s already obsessed with fairytales because of you, now your boyfriend will have him certain he’s the Dread Pirate Luca.”

“Kay,” Chris warned.

“You’re a lousy liar, you know,” she said, “Always were.”

“Not lying,” he said firmly, watching Zach’s lithe body assume an _en garde_ position. He could practically feel his sister’s disbelieving eyebrow and gritted his teeth. “I really can’t afford any distractions right now.”

She eyeballed him sideways, “He looks at you like _you’re_ Thanksgiving dinner. And you’re pretty distracted. Just sayin’.” She turned her gaze back to the window, where Zach was now lunging deeply, back arched with a long leg extended behind him, butt tight and round in his black jeans like some kind of dancer, or matador. Katie rounded both eyebrows in appraisal, “Not that I blame you there, he’s tasty.”

“Gross, you’re married.”

“Yeah, married, not blind.”

“Whatever,” Chris breathed, ignoring the flip of his stomach and pretending to be absorbed with his mom’s flowers on the window sill.

“I like him,” she concluded, “Mom and Dad do too.”

“Like him all you want, there’s nothing there.”

Katie patted his head as she walked off toward the kitchen, “You keep telling yourself that, Princess.”

She headed out the screen door as Chris rolled his eyes at the nickname, heading Luca off to stop the fun and get him cleaned up for dinner.

Once the kid was gone, Zach collapsed spread-eagled in the grass. He laughed and went outside.

“Want another run?” Chris stood over him, grinning down, “I bet we could get another mile in before dinner!”

“Fuck you,” Zach said genially. Clem trotted up, dragging Luca’s abandoned stick with her, which she dropped on his chest, wagging as she licked at his ears with her long tongue. Zach giggled and squirmed, sitting up to pet her.

“Clem, get off,” Chris scolded gently, taking up the other stick to toss for her and sitting on the lawn nearby as she shot off after it.

“It’s fine,” Zach told him. “Didn’t I tell you I like animals?” He tugged the other end of the stick when she brought it back, playing her favorite game of tuggies. “I had a dog when I was a kid. Little street mutt I was allowed to adopt,” he frowned, “Then I went off to boarding school, and when I came back for the summer, the dog had been given away.”

“That sucks,” Chris said.

“Yeah,” Zach agreed, “I mean I understand why, and I’m sure someone made sure he was cared for, but… I’m still pissed about it. About not being asked, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that,” Chris nodded, watching Zach snuggle with his family dog, who had taken to him as easily as Dazzle had. Still, he had a sadness about him Chris had never really seen before. Knowing what he now knew about Zach’s family life, he was starting to get a picture in his head about what his upbringing was like. However well-off he may have been, he seemed to have been lacking in other ways.

He looked away, toward the old external garage they had in the corner of the yard. He hauled himself back up and put a hand out to Zach, “Come on.”

“Where?”

Chris dusted grass clippings from his ass and grinned, “I’ll introduce you to my baby.”

“Your _baby_?” Zach’s eyebrows gathered, and he followed curiously as Chris pulled open both doors of the shed to let in the light.

Inside he lifted both arms in showcase, smiling wide. “1968 Camaro SS Convertible. She has an LX-1fuel-injected V8 engine, six-speed manual transmission, fully restored leather interior, original Grotto Blue with racing stripes.”

Zach gave him an amused smile, “I can see that.” He slid his hand along the hood. “How long have you had it?”

Chris went ahead to grab the keys, “Since I was seventeen, been working on making her run for that long. Somebody fried the original engine and I’ve had pull it together from parts. Finally heard her voice this past summer,” he opened the door and started her up, grinning as he revved it, “Man, that gives me a hard-on.”

Zach belted out a laugh, walking back around to the front, tilting his head to listen. “But it’s not quite right, is it?”

Chris frowned again, “Yeah, there’s been that rattle I just can’t figure out. Only started right before I had to come back to school.”

“Pop the hood?” Zach told him.

Chris did and came back out front, “You know cars?”

Zach propped the hood open and leaning in to watch the ’68 run. “My cousin was big into cars. German, Swedish, American, didn’t matter as long as they were fast.” He reached in, poking and pressing as he listened. “Ah, see, you’ve probably got a loose bolt on your housing down there, hard to reach when she’s all put together. Shut her back off for a second?” he asked, searching in a nearby toolkit, then got down and wriggled under the propped wheel well. Chris peered down in the narrow space from above to watch him do a trick with a socket and a couple of smaller wrenches he never would have thought of to tighten that bolt without taking the whole engine apart. Once Zach scooted back out and went to turn over the engine again, the rattling had stopped, leaving the ’68 purring just like a kitten. He came back around with a triumphant grin.

“Huh,” Chris said, surprised. “I’ll be damned.” He looked Zach over as he leaned in the window to turn the ignition off once again. “You keep mentioning your cousin? He taught you that?”

“Yeah. Eddie.” Zach’s smile melted away, idly swiping his hands on his shirt as he looked off out of the garage, brows coming together in a frown. “He died, just a few months ago. An accident. Not with cars, he fell off his horse at a polo match.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris offered.

“Thank you.”

The silence was awkward, just the sound of them breathing over the engine making a settling tick or two. Chris leaned back against side of the car and tried to fill it, pointing. “Your shirt is all…”

Zach looked down, shirt now smeared with dust and grease both on the front and back. He shrugged and pulled it off, head coming out with mussed hair. He was lean and sinewy, and hairy, the dark swath across his chest arrowing to each collarbone and downward in between to a narrow trail beneath his bellybutton, disappearing into his jeans. Chris cleared his throat and averted his eyes.

Raking his clean hand through his hair, Zach clutched his wadded shirt behind his back in the other. A hint of smugness played at his lips, eyes hooded. In the shaded afternoon light, they were deep and dark, warming Chris all over.

He breathed a laugh, toeing at a dirty pair of gloves at his feet. “You know, I think my family is getting the wrong idea.”

“About what?”

“You,” Chris muttered, “And me. Us.”

“That we’re a thing?” Zach was somehow closer, his voice low, rich and suggestive. 

“Sort of a thing, yeah,” Chris whispered. Zach leaned a hand on the hood by Chris’ hip, the muscles of his arm cording under that soft looking hair. He smelled fantastic.

Zach’s fingers came up under Chris’ chin to lift his gaze. “Which we’re not,” he whispered, leaning very close, his eyes darting to Chris’ lips, “That would be ludicrous. We hate each other.”

“Totally despise each other,” Chris breathed, and it was like quicksand. He was opening his mouth to let Zach in before he could even think, ceding control to the feeling of their lips meeting, the gentle pull on his bottom lip taking him in and hopelessly under. A hot surfacing gasp and they met again, Zach’s hand sliding from his chin back into his hair, hips pressing together. Heat immediately pooled, Chris tilted obligingly as Zach mouthed down his jaw to his ear with the lightest nip and soothing suction. His own hands had found skin, bare and smooth over muscle, the hair softer than he expected.

“God, Chris,” Zach breathed, his lips agile and dangerous as they found their way back, tongue licking into his mouth, arms tightening around his waist, arching slightly back against the car from the onslaught.

Chris was lost. It had been ages since anyone had touched him like this, longer still since he’d been with a guy. His self-imposed denial had been no big deal as long as he ignored it, but there was no way to stop now that the on-button had been flipped once again. Something about the way Zach’s broad hand swept down and up the back of his neck, the way his nose brushed and tucked up against his own as their tongues twisted, the way his thigh pressed between his own and he felt how swiftly they were hardening against each other made him give right in, bucking up with a moan.

“Hey boys!”

They froze, eyes popping open inches from each other, the brown of Zach’s nearly swallowed by black, his strong arms still tight around him. The shed was on the opposite side of the yard from the back door, it was unlikely they could be seen from this angle, but his mother’s voice was still like shot from a gun.

“We’re nearly ready to eat!”

Another second of silence passed before Zach let go the breath he was holding, hot as he tucked his face into Chris’ neck. What killed him was the nuzzle, the way Zach pressed in with his nose like a pleased cat, stealing one more almost chaste kiss the the corner of his jaw before he stepped back, bending to retrieve the soiled shirt he must have dropped. Still, those dark eyes crawled predatorily over him, lingering on his tented jeans, hungry as he slid his teeth over his lip.

Chris took a deep breath, and trying to slow his galloping heart. He wasn't sure what to say, how to explain himself.

“Guys? You still out here?”

“Coming!” he shouted back, immediately going pink at the dark hint of a grin that particular phrasing earned him. “Put that back on, man,” he hissed, straightening his own shirt and trying to tug it down in the front. Zach obeyed, and Chris shoved his hands deep in his pockets in an effort to disguise his erection as he jogged back in.

“Can’t wait!” he offered loudly, rushing through the kitchen as she carried two casseroles to the dining room, “Just gonna go—” he pointed vaguely toward the back of the house. 

“Smells wonderful, Mrs. Pine,” he heard Zach behind him, “So sorry, your son had me flat on my back out there.”

Chris’ eyes widened and his heart thudded at the words, though his mom seemed oblivious, “I’m not surprised, he loves to have anyone get a good look at that car.”

“I bet he does,” Zach’s low reply floated along after him, “I’ll just go change, won’t take long.”

In the hall, they nearly got taken out by Luca running toward food with a warrior yell, Katie following after him and slowing as she took the pair of them in. Zach cleared his throat awkwardly, quickly excusing himself to the bathroom with his bag to change his clothes. Katie changed tact, following Chris as he ducked to use the laundry sink to scrub his hands.

“You might think about changing too, Romeo,” she murmured close in his ear, tugging the back side of his shirt around. He looked down to find an obvious grease-smeared handprint there that couldn’t possibly be his own. Then she poked him in the neck. “Can’t do too much about this hickey, though.”

“Fuck off,” he hissed, bright red as he shoved her out of the way and headed as quickly as possible to his room, where he found himself digging out a collared shirt to at least try to pull attention away from the little red mark under his earlobe, and trying to fluff his overlong hair to cover it and mostly failing. He could still feel Zach’s mouth there, soft lips and dangerous teeth pulling at the skin.

Jesus, what just happened, and could it happen again?

His brain was scrambling, but his body was all aboard. He’d resisted this for months, but a couple of minutes making out was steamrolling right over every logical reason why he had convinced himself not to get involved with Zach. He could still smell him up close, feel the span of his hands against his back. He had to stop and recite some nursery rhymes to will his boner away so he could show himself to his family.

When he finally returned, he found his dad finishing up the carving of the turkey in the kitchen and carrying the loaded platter to the center of the table. 

Chris grabbed the gravy boat and followed, pausing in the arched doorway to watch. He’d had grown up eating the majority of family dinners around the table in the kitchen nook, or else in front of the television, so the rarely-used formal dining room almost always maintained this holiday feeling, full of warm aromas of his mom’s excellent cooking and the childlike excitement he could see on Luca’s face, with eyes bigger than his stomach. Seeing Zach amongst them felt bizarre after the last fifteen minutes, once again perfectly dressed and dutifully carrying the cranberry sauce to set on the table where his mother directed.

“Oh, do we have—gravy, thanks honey. I think that’s it!” she proclaimed, taking the boat from Chris. “Everyone take a seat and dig in, serve yourselves. Chris, you and Zach can sit around on this side.” 

Zach made his argument for being on his left so they wouldn’t knock elbows, which was contradicted as soon as they sat down by the way he put his napkin in his lap and then reached for Chris’ hand under the tablecloth.

Breath catching, he had to watch his sister put together Luca’s plate across the table in order to keep his libido from firing right back up at the way Zach’s fingers slowly stroked down and between his own, thumb rubbing a circle against the inside of his wrist before sliding away, as Zach reached to accept the bowl of mashed potatoes being passed. Chris couldn’t keep his eyes from the dark hair on the backs of his forearms, large hands and neat fingernails, until the bowl was passed his way.

 _Get a grip_ , he thought as he filled his own plate. His family was here, he had to settle it down. He turned his attention to the wine being poured, and to his mom’s cooking, which was as delicious as it always was. There was juicy turkey, stuffing, cornbread, mushroom and pasta salads, and the casseroles and candied yams he’d helped with the night before.

“So good, mom,” he moaned, reaching for another slice of turkey, everyone complimenting the food and quietly eating for some minutes. Chris was endlessly amused with Luca imitating Zach’s continental table manners, trying and failing to eat with his fork upside down. For his part, Zach seemed oblivious.

“Is the food much different where you’re from?” his mother asked anxiously.

“I’ve spent time all over Europe,” Zach told her, “This is like the big feasts I remember in France.”

“Well, thank you!” she simpered under the praise.

“You never hear anything about Denmark over here,” Katie said. “What’s ever come from Denmark? Besides you.”

“Well, there’s Kierkegaard, Chris’ favorite,” Zach offered, shooting him a grin and making Chris roll his eyes. “And Hans Christian Andersen, his other favorite.”

Almost every set of eyes landed on Chris knowingly, and he shrugged.

Zach struck on, “We also invented Legos.”

Luca grinned, “Legos are my favorite!!”

“Mine too,” Zach paused to smile at him and chew another bite of food. “Plus we’ve spawned a few of your Hollywood stars. Mads Mikkelsen, Nicolaj Coster-Waldau, Viggo Mortensen.”

“Ooh, yes, Aragorn!” Chris’ mother crowed.

“Technically he’s American, Mom,” Chris said, “And he’s only half-Danish.”

“So am I,” Zach quirked a brow.

“He says of his teenage crush,” Katie mocked. “You know Chris and his thing for royalty. My Brother, My Captain, my King.”

“Shut up,” Chris hissed as Zach shot him another sidelong look. Under the table, Chris felt his knee nudge up against his own.

The doorbell rang, and Princess Clem abandoned her post at Luca’s feet, wuffing to the entry to greet the newest intruder. His parents frowned at each other. 

“Was someone else coming?” Bob murmured.

“I didn't think so,” Gwynne moved to get up, but his dad stopped her since she’d barely sat down and was corralled against the wall.

“Katie, honey, will you answer that?” he asked.

“I should check, it could be a neighbor who needs something—” his mom persisted as his sister went out.

“Gwynne, sit down, you’ve been going all morning. Katie will handle it.”

Chris could feel his mother fretting, but at his dad’s request she sat back and took another distracted bite.

“Mom, Dad, you’ll never guess,” Katie returned to the dining room, her teeth clenched in a weird smile. Her eyes landing on Chris immediately, “Aunt Clarisse dropped by!”

“Oh my goodness!” Gwynne stood, her chair nearly toppling back. Bob looked strangely grave and got to his own feet.

“Oh please, don’t fret yourselves on my account, I can only stay for a moment,” came an accented voice from the entry, “Obviously my secretary has made a grievous error on the traditional timing of this celebration, and I do apologize for intruding,” Aunt Clarisse stepped through the dining room arch carrying a large wrapped basket. At her appearance, Zach shot up from his seat.

She passed the basket over to Chris’ mother. “I’ve brought you something for the occasion, Gwynnie darling, fresh from the best farms and orchards in Genovia for your table. There’s a wonderful pear jam and goat cheese I think you’ll enjoy. Oh, Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!”

“Thank you, Clarisse,” his mom said a little warily, setting the basket to the sideboard and turning her back to it, clenching her hands together with white knuckles. Katie moved to grip Luca’s shoulders over the back of his chair. David stood up to put a hand on her shoulder, sensing tension. 

_Well, this is awkward,_ Chris thought, the only one besides the kid still sitting with a forkful of turkey, potatoes and cranberry sauce poised to devour. He set it down on the edge of his plate, reached for his napkin to wipe his mouth and stood.

“Please, all of you, do sit and keep enjoying your celebration, it all smells wonderful,” Aunt Clarisse waved, taking a step forward from the doorway to look over their feast and folded her hands primly with a smile. “Gwynne, you have outdone yourself.”

“Are you a queen?” Luca piped up, “You talk like a queen.”

Katie hurriedly shushed him, but Aunt Clarisse tipped him a wink, “What a smart young man. You must be Luca!” She smiled fondly at Katie, who looked as anxious as Chris had ever seen her. 

“Well. Christopher,” she turned her attention across the table, beaming at him. “You were only a boy when I last saw you. And my goodness, what a handsome young man you are now. Do you remember me?”

There was some serious weirdness to this, and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it all. Even Zach looked like he’d been caught committing a crime or something. “Yes,” Chris answered. “I remember Joe too,” he nodded to the sharp looking man hovering just in the doorway.

“And I you, Christopher,” Joe tipped a nod to him with the exact same quiet, kind but impenetrable bearing he remembered. His grey eyes slid over to Zach, who was still standing at almost militant attention, eyes on the wall behind Chris’ sister.

Chris cleared his throat, “This is my friend, Zach Quinto. He’s an exchange student at my college.”

“Ah yes, of course,” Clarisse addressed him. “Are you enjoying this most American of holidays, Mr. Quinto?”

“I am, Your—Madam,” Zach answered, with an oddly apologetic bow of his head. He didn’t meet her eyes, but darted a swift gaze to Joe again. “Chris’ family have been very generous to host me.”

“Zach’s a Viking!” Luca exclaimed, because this was obviously pertinent information to share with a newcomer to a six-year-old.

“Is he? How exciting,” Clarisse’s smiled at Luca once again. Her mouth tightened momentarily as her gaze slipped appraisingly over Zach once more, then came back to Chris, all sweetness, “Christopher, dear, I’d like to speak to you at some length about an important family matter, but I don’t wish to infringe upon your holiday any further than I have. Might I invite you to meet with me privately, perhaps for brunch tomorrow?”

Chris sent a questioning look at his parents. They both nodded stiffly. Katie was gnawing on her lip with a liquid sheen in her eyes, but said nothing. “Uh, sure, okay,” he agreed.

“Wonderful!” she proclaimed. “I’ll send a car for you around 10:30, shall I? Enjoy your wonderful feast then, my darlings, and Happy Thanksgiving!” And with that, she was on her way out as quick as she came.

“Clarisse, wait! Can I at least make you a plate?” his mother chased after her, father in tow, and Chris could hear them making polite arguments and deferments all the way through the front door. 

“Please excuse me,” Zach muttered to the table, and then he was gone too.

Chris sat back down and glared at his sister. “Kay? Are you gonna spill or what?”

She shook her head tightly, looking down at her son’s curls. David looked just as perplexed as Chris felt.

“Mommy, you’re squeezing me too tight!” Luca complained.

“Sorry baby,” she whispered, letting go of his shoulders, her hands petting and fussing at his hair. After Luca brushed her away again, still concentrating on shoveling in his food, she darted from the room with her husband following, leaving them alone.

“What the f— heck,” Chris corrected himself mid-swear.

“Who’s the queen lady?” Luca asked, mouth full of marshmallow yams.

“She’s not a queen, kiddo, she’s just our great aunt,” Chris told him, distracted. From his vantage, out the arch and through the front windows, he could see his parents and now his sister talking with Aunt Clarisse in front of a black sedan, all of them terribly serious. He wanted to follow, but figured he shouldn’t leave the kid at the table on his own. He huffed, digging back into his own food. 

His parents finally came back inside, Bob with an arm around Gwynne, stopping to whisper with Katie by the hall. There was much shaking of heads and somber glances his way, to which he returned with _what the fuck?_ gesture.

Silently, they all returned to the table, with meaningful glances to each other and avoidance toward his own.

“Guys?” he asked, receiving no response. Then Zach reappeared, nodding silent apologies and taking his own seat once again.

“Where’d you go?” Chris whispered. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Zach scooted his chair back in, shooting a smile of acknowledgement around the table before murmuring back, “Bathroom.”

More awkward silence was punctured by the sounds of cutlery for several minutes. 

“Sorry about that,” Bob finally broke it, looking to Zach. “Clarisse is… well, she’s an aunt of mine, her husband was a cousin some which way. He and their son passed away some years ago, and she’s been a little eccentric since then.”

“Don’t apologize,” Zach deferred, “I think there’s one in every family.”

“Black sheep syndrome,” Gwynne nodded, “You’ve got one too?”

“Um,” Zach ducked his head, “I think I’m it, actually.”

“Doesn’t matter where you come from, Chris has always had good judgement of character in his friends,” his dad smiled genuinely. “You seem like good people to us, Zach.”

Zach’s brows crawled together nervously. “Thank you, sir,” he acquiesced, putting down his fork and knife and taking up his wine glass with some hesitation. “I… I would never have expected, and have rarely experienced such a welcome as you’ve given me. Truly. So thank you.”

“Well, then,” Gwynne smiled kindly, lifting her own glass, waiting for everyone else to follow suit, “To unexpected guests!”

“To unexpected guests!” they echoed, Chris tapping Zach’s glass with his own last and close enough to see the pink blush across his cheeks. With the air in the room finally warming again, they ate until the tureens were half-decimated and belts were loosened. More wine and beer was poured, and eventually everyone migrated from the table for roomier places. His father settled into the living room, focused on the football game with a little less enthusiasm than usual. Katie and David disappeared. Luca quickly fell asleep draped against the arm of the sofa.

Chris hung back to help his mom bring the food back into the kitchen. He hoped to glean some more information, but she was unforthcoming, her expression pinched as she directed him to specific tupperware to box up the leftovers and set him on the dishes.

“May I help, Mrs. Pine?” Zach appeared in the entry.

“Of course you may not,” Gwynne told him archly, “You’re a guest in this house.”

“And I recall you saying ‘I cook, you clean up’ earlier,” Zach tried again, “I’ve also earned my dishwashing credentials under the supervision of your son, so he can vouch for my experience. Hopefully.”

“Be my guest,” Chris said with amused snort and gestured that he could have at the sink, standing by to do the drying and rack whatever could go in the dishwasher. “Mom, why don’t you go take a load off? We can handle this.”

“All right,” she conceded, “I’ve done my bit.”

Zach didn’t seem to be one for conversation either, and by the time they finished and settled in the living room, Chris gave up, turning his attention to the football to take his mind off.

Katie and Chris’ mom opened more wine, bringing the bottle to the coffee table. Zach also had a large glass. Chris opted for beer, cracking one for his dad and David as well. 

“Well, we have board games,” his dad eventually said once the football had ended. “And we have pie and ice cream.”

“Pie and ice cream!” Luca proclaimed, waking promptly from his nap at the mere mention. Laughing, Chris fixed him a plate of pumpkin with vanilla, and they broke into teams to play rounds of Clue and Candyland, once Luca was full of dessert and wired once again. The pie and wine were soon annihilated, and the atmosphere finally relaxed as rounds of card games came and went.

The evening found his mom and dad nestled close together on the sofa watching the news, Luca went to bed, and at some point Katie, David and Zach had all become scarce as well.

Chris discovered him out in the shed, sitting in the back seat of the Camaro, now lit only by the long glow of the automatic light from a neighbor’s gazebo from over the fence.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Zach returned quietly, eyes finding him without lifting his head from the seatback. His long legs bunched up against the front seat, slouched down into the tight space of the coupe’s rear seating.

Chris opened the other door and slid in beside him. “Pine family overload? It happens. Actors and shrinks, you know, David kind of gets overstimulated with us all too.”

Zach smiled loosely, his voice low and quiet, “Just cooling my head. I’ve had an overabundance of wine.”

“Could have switched to beer.”

One dark eyebrow lifted, his head rolling on the seat to look at him, “You know how I get when I drink.”

“I could always punch you again,” Chris said in a laugh.

Zach’s eyes dropped immediately to his mouth. “I’d deserve it.”

Lips tugging into a smile, Chris let himself tip closer and was met halfway. This kiss was quieter, almost cautious, but soft and warm and delicious. Zach broke it, their heads tilted together for a moment before he sat back, eyes searching the stitching on the backs of the front seats.

“I’m afraid I may have disrupted your Aunt’s plans to speak to you,” he said. “There wasn’t another place setting at the table.”

“She wasn’t invited, though, I’m pretty sure.”

“Neither was I,” Zach reminded him. “She’s your family, I was the odd one out.”

“You kidding me?” Chris snorted, “I’ve only ever met her once before this. Years ago, we’re not close or anything. And Thanksgiving isn’t all that formal for us anyway, we just eat like pigs and watch football. There’s plenty of food. We could have found a couple more chairs for her and that Joe guy if they wanted to stay. He’s kinda weird, right? Seems like a secret agent or something.”

Zach exhaled, looking at him strangely. “Yeah.”

“This whole thing is weird. I don’t know what her deal is. I’ve never been able to get the whole story out of anyone, when it was my sister. They always told me I’d know when I was older.”

“She came to your sister?”

“Yeah, a long time ago. Katie went to Europe with her for like a week,” Chris answered, leaning his head back and sighing at the memory. “I was so jealous. I was… I dunno, around nine or ten. That’s how long it’s been.”

Zach’s face looked like he had a lot to say, but just let his head tip back on the seat himself.

“What?” Chris prodded.

Zach looked at him, lifting his shoulders. “Nothing. It is weird.”

Chris tilted over to kiss him again. He couldn’t help it, he wanted more of his soft lips, his dark rich smell, the way the scrape of stubble against his chin and neck made his pulse skyrocket. His mouth was warm and tongue agile and he tasted like fruity wine and pumpkin pie spice—but then, once more, Zach pulled back.

“What?” he protested in a hush.

Zach’s eyes darted between his, his expression longing but somehow restrained. “Nothing,” he whispered, his thumb stroking Chris’ cheek. There was a sound of a screen door slapping in its frame from somewhere, could even be from a neighbor, Chris didn’t know and didn’t care, he just wanted more. But it only made Zach withdraw further, “Nothing. I’ll just… I guess we should say goodnight.”

Chris frowned, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Zach repeated, and darted in to kiss him one more time, slick and tempting and god, backing away to take Chris’ hand in his own pull him from the car and lead him back to the house.

When they paused in the vacant living room, the fold-out was already neatly made up with sheets and blankets. Zach pointedly dropped his hand, pushing his own into his pockets like he was corralling them from further misdeeds. “Goodnight, Christopher.”

“‘Night,” he replied, confused as he backed to the hallway, but Zach simply stood there, watching him go with something regretful in his eyes. 

He shut himself in his bedroom, wondering why they were stopping when Zach looked like going to sleep is the very last thing on his mind. Why wouldn’t he come to Chris’ room with him? Why wasn’t this ending—or beginning—like many a clandestine teenaged encounter on his narrow bed with the door half-open, tempting fate with his parents and sister in the house? He’d resisted Zach for so long. What happened?


	6. Let It Go

Chris woke late, his head slightly achy and gut feeling heavy, unsurprising post-Turkey Day. But within two blinks of the bright, late morning light, came the memories of the other events of the day before. Zach kissing him hard against the car, lighting his body up in ways no one had in months, maybe years. He skated a hand beneath the sheets for a scratch, enjoying the warm pressure of his palm. 

God, this was so stupid. He shouldn't want it, but he did. He could list every single reason why he had made his personal pact not to get involved with anyone, and he could make a whole new one with reasons why Zach in particular was exactly the wrong person to break it with—and he still couldn’t not want it, now that it was there on offer.

And he wasn’t going to jerk off in his childhood bed. Not when the promise of the real thing, of more secret kisses and touches and maybe other things lay waiting just out in the living room. He stretched, yawned hugely and levered himself upright.

But the sofa was empty, folded up for the day. The blankets, sheets and pillow were no longer folded into the basket under the end table. Frowning, he turned to the kitchen, letting his nose guide him to the coffee pot.

“Morning sweetie.” 

His mom was getting into the curio and dusting the chotchkis, something he knew she only did when she was worried and searching for things to clean. And given she’d probably already done it once before they’d arrived for the holiday weekend, it meant she was extra fretful about something.

“Hey,” he greeted, holding a warm mug in both hands. “Where is everyone?”

“David and your father went to get a round of golf in,” she told him, “And of course Luca wanted to go, so Katie took him down to the Putt-Putt to occupy him for a while.”

“Where’s Zach?”

“Didn’t he tell you goodbye before he left?” his mother frowned, “He said he had an early flight back out, that he had some finishing touches to put on your science project before your finals start next week. He wanted to make sure it was ready.”

Chris bit his lip. They’d never actually discussed return plans, but he had assumed Zach would take the train back up with him, like before. Why would Zach leave without even telling him, especially after last night? Did he leave because of what happened last night? Jesus, Zach had been flirting with him for months, and now that Chris finally caved, he just bailed?

“You two didn’t have a fight, did you?” she prodded, like she was reading his damn mind. “I’d hate it if we spooked away one of the good ones.”

“Mom, I told you. He’s just…” he mumbled, confused, “Just a friend.”

“Whatever you say, honey,” she said distractedly, “Hey, I’ve ironed a good shirt for you. It was hanging in your closet, I hope it still fits you.”

“What for?”

“For your brunch with Aunt Clarisse.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He’d nearly forgotten.

“You’d better go take a shower and get ready, you don’t have a lot of time before your car gets here,” she pressed, checking the wall clock, “And you don’t want to keep her waiting. Shave that scruffy face while you’re in there. And make sure your jeans don’t have any holes. In fact, if you have a pair of nice slacks in there somewhere, I can try to get them ironed in the next—”

“Mom?” he waited until she actually looked at him. “What’s this whole thing with her about? Why won’t anyone tell me?”

She tightened her lips in resignation as she reached out to brush his hair back from his forehead, “You’re about to find out, sweetheart. She’ll tell you everything you want to know. I’m sorry it had to be this way.”

She sent him off, and then fussed over him repeatedly when he emerged dressed in the shirt and a pair of somewhat decent jeans. They were arguing over whether or not to borrow one of his dad’s ties when the doorbell rang.

The man behind it looked like the MIB, stiff and formal in a black suit and dark sunglasses. “Picking up Mr. Christopher Pine.”

“Yeah,” Chris said, looking back at his mom. She gave him a tight hug, which he allowed for a moment before it felt weird in front of this guy. “Do I, uh, need to bring anything?”

“No, sir, you’re cleared.”

“Okay,” he frowned, unsure of whatever that meant, and followed to the black sedan on the curb. The guy opened the back door for him to scoot in, shut it behind him, and then slid into the driver’s seat.

“Bluebird on the wing, over,” the guy touched the mic with the curly wire leading from his ear like he was in the Secret Service.

“Geez,” Chris muttered, “So what do they call you?”

“Shades, sir.”

“ _Shades_?”

“Shades,” the guy repeated seriously, driving out of the neighborhood.

Shades was not much for conversation and Chris quickly gave it up, eyes on the scenery as they drove up through the canyon and down into the city.

The car pulled into a gated community, complete with a guardhouse in one of the super ritzy sections. Shades presented credentials, was buzzed through and took the car into a circle drive in front of a huge fancy house. Chris huffed with some disbelief. It was all pretty impressive, he just wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be impressed, or if he wanted to be. Was that the point of all this? Was his nutty aunt trying to butter him up or to intimidate him? 

Chris opened his door before Shades could get to it. The man led him in the huge double doors, flanked by butlers and opening to a grandly appointed foyer, all green and white marble with gilded staircases curling around each side of the hall. 

“Ah, Christopher!” Clarisse strolled in from a side room, beaming and reaching for both of his hands. She air-kissed him on each cheek, pulling back to look him over, fond and appraising. “Thank you so much for coming, dear, I know this was dreadfully short notice.”

“It’s no problem,” he shrugged, “I have the whole weekend off, so.”

“Do you? How nice,” she led him through the main hall and out another set of doors to a rich garden his mom would be definitely jealous of. Down through rows of sculpted hedges, rhododendrons and magnolias, she came to a flagstone patio shaded with trellised bougainvillea, and a table set with fine china and cutlery. A tea cart sat nearby, with a waiter immediately pouring for her as they sat down.

“Tea, sir?” the man asked him.

“Um, sure,” Chris said. He wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but he was distracted as more people streamed from the house, setting small silver bowls of a cream soup before the pair of them, and others bearing stacked tea trays full of food.

“Well, as I’m told your Thanksgiving feast tends to be on the heavy side, I’ve had this brunch prepared fairly light,” Aunt Clarisse told him. “The chef here makes a lovely Vichyssoise.”

Chris wasn’t sure what she meant by _light_ when he saw the sheer variety of tiny bites being laid out on the table. Along with tea and the cold soup, there were miniature bagel slices with cream cheese and smoked salmon, rounds of toast with tiny fried quail eggs, prosciutto and dollops of hollandaise, thinly sliced fruit and soft cheese stacked together, little perfect triangles of cucumber sandwiches and more. Chris always felt like he never wanted to eat again after Thanksgiving dinner, but presented with so much amazing looking food, his stomach decided what the hell. He grabbed one of everything—two of the little benedict thingies—and went to town.

Aunt Clarisse watched him eat with a light laugh. When he looked questioningly up mid-bite, she waved him on. “Ah, the metabolism of the young. Enjoy it while you have it, my dear.”

“It’s really good,” he swallowed his mouthful to speak. “College, you know, you end up eating a lot of ramen. Not a lot of fresh stuff.”

“I imagine so,” she sipped at her tea and delicately nibbled a cucumber sandwich as he ate.

“How do you like the pears?” she asked, to which he nodded enthusiastically. The fruit was unlike any he’d tasted before, the texture crisp, the flavor subtle and honey sweet. “They’re a Genovian specialty, the most prized variety in the world.”

“Really good,” he repeated around a mouthful.

Once he’d slowed down, she spoke again. “Well, Christopher, speaking of college. I have heard you will likely graduate with honors in Literature from the University of Berkeley.”

“Hopefully,” he shrugged, wiping his mouth with his napkin, “I don’t know about honors, but I’m trying.”

“A Bachelor’s degree is well done, nonetheless,” she complimented, “Have you a specific area of concentration?”

He launched in, “Fairytales. All types of folk tales and morality plays, you know? Grimm, Aesop, the Arabian Nights, that sort of stuff. I want to do my dissertation on their evolution through the ages, especially into modern times with film and stuff.”

“That is quite ambitious. There are many thousands of stories like those, and many variations.”

“Yeah, that’s what I love about them,” he expounded, delighted she was interested, “How they change and evolve and become something else with time.”

“Indeed,” she replied, “My favorite was always Cinderella. Whose very name has changed throughout history. The French _Cendrillon_ , I think, was the original.”

“Actually,” he couldn’t help but correct, “They think the earliest version is Greek, _Rhodopis_ , written by Strabo in the first century BC.”

“Really?” she exclaimed, “Well. You can teach me a thing or two about fairytales, young man.”

He blushed lightly under the praise, fidgeting with his hands. “I remember the story you told me, when I was little,” he hesitated to go on, but she encouraged him with a nod. “The one about a princess who had to marry a prince she’d never met, of a land she knew nothing about and how she wanted to run away, but he… the prince won her heart eventually.” Chris looked off across the manicured lawns with a frown. The effect Aunt Clarisse had on him all those years ago had never left him. The story had been far more flowery and enchanting than his summary; the princess had been determined to hate her intended on sight, but he had wooed her with acts of kindness and compassion and a genuine love for life and the good of his people. He shook his head at the memory, “I’ve studied fairytales from dozens of countries for years, and I’ve never been able to find that one.”

“That’s because it was no fairytale,” his aunt said, eyes crinkling sweetly, “The story I told you was my own. The prince was your Great Uncle Rupert, heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Genovia. It was the story of how I became his wife, and his Queen.”

Chris blinked at her, “Bullshit.”

“I beg your pardon?” she sat back with a hand on her chest, clearly affronted.

“Sorry, I thought… but you were just humoring Luca, weren’t you?” he insisted, “I mean I get it, he’s an impressionable kid and I’ve already filled his head with all these stupid stories. You had to be kidding.”

“No,” she said primly. “No, I was not.”

Chris openly stared. His crazy aunt was a real queen? Of a country so tiny most people didn’t even know it existed, let alone could find it on a map? He looked around this fancy house, with its butlers and maids and security. Which wasn’t at all out of place in the middle of Beverly Hills, but still. Clarisse followed his gaze and explained, “This property and its staff is a timeshare between several participating small countries and principalities: Liechtenstein and Andorra, for example. We use it as a consulate and for special events while in this part of the United States.”

“Okay,” he decided to suspend disbelief for the moment, “Say you are… who you say you are. What does this have to do with me?”

Aunt Clarisse set down her tea and folded her hands in her lap, “Genovia is currently in a period of _interregnum_ , which means—”

“Leaderless,” Chris interrupted. “It’s Latin, it means ‘between reign’.”

“Yes, it does,” she raised her fine brows, impressed.

“But it’s not, though, if you’re the Queen.”

“I was Queen Consort to the King by marriage, before he passed on,” she corrected. “Then, when our son took ill unexpectedly and it became clear he would not recover, I was designated Regent, retaining my title and various political powers, until his heir could assume the throne. But I am not the rightful ruler, Christopher. That seat belongs only to a blood relative of the Crown.”

“Your son died too?” His dad had mentioned this yesterday, but it hadn’t really sunk in until now, with this context.

“Several years ago, yes,” she nodded sorrowfully, “It was a particularly virulent strain of influenza, one that killed even the young and healthy. You may remember the news; it affected many areas all over the world. We had not seen an epidemic like it for some time, and in a very small country it was quite devastating. We lost 21% of our entire population.”

Chris dropped his eyes in sympathy. “So what happened to the rightful heir? Was there a reason he couldn’t just take over? Or she.”

Aunt Clarisse smiled fondly. “My granddaughter, Amelia. She’s a bit younger than you. But she was young, too young when her father died. And due to complicated circumstances, she was raised here with her mother, in San Francisco, in fact, until she was informed of her birthright.”

“What circumstances?”

“After his compulsory education and a year at university in France, my son took a year abroad and attended Stanford. He met a young lady there, with whom he fell quite in love.”

“Ah,” Chris said, quickly deducing the rest.

“Yes,” nodded Aunt Clarisse, “There were, at that point, laws in Genovia concerning whom the Heir Apparent may marry, and especially regarding children born out of wedlock, laws which I have spent considerable time persuading our Parliament to amend. Old traditions we are finding to be a detriment to the remaining royal houses of Europe, you know. Times do change, and we must change with them.”

“So you lobbied to make it so he could marry a commoner, and their kid, Amelia, could be the Princess?”

“Ideally, yes,” she nodded, “However, the unfortunate snail’s pace of government took a toll as well. Amelia’s mother had done some growing up in the interim, and she and my son discovered they were much better friends than they would be husband and wife. She had raised Amelia well, and it was decided between all of us that we should not uproot her until she was of an appropriate age. But then my son passed, and Amelia had to be informed far earlier than intended.” Aunt Clarisse frowned, “And although she did show interest and great promise for the following years until she would reach the age of ascension, she… ultimately chose not to assume the throne after all.”

“Why not?” Chris asked curiously.

She pressed her lips together briefly, “Oh, she has her reasons. It’s not a decision made lightly, even for those born to it. Indeed, even for those of us schooled for it.” She looked fully at him once again, “Which is why I wished to speak with you, Christopher. I am offering you the very same choice she was given. You would be the first to break the Genovian royal lineage of the House of Renaldi in over five hundred years. You would lead a new dynasty in our history.”

“What?” He was pretty sure he had missed something fundamental here.

“You were born Christopher Whitelaw-Devereaux Pine. Devereaux was your paternal grandmother’s surname, closest cousins of the Renaldis for generations, due to a tendency to only marry within noble families in times past. She was by birth Countess Vanessa Regitte Devereaux, who in 1931 immigrated to the United States and assumed an alternate maiden name, Whitelaw, to distance herself during an unfortunate feud between members of the Devereaux family. She settled in New York, married your grandfather, and took the Pine surname.”

Chris frowned. He barely remembered his paternal grandparents; they’d lived on the opposite side of the country and he had only the briefest toddler’s memory of one visit before they’d died. His dad had plenty of stories about his childhood and his parents, but he’d never even mentioned this, not once. “But Whitelaw is a family name, it’s been a tradition since…” Aunt Clarisse raised her brows again in question, and not knowing the origin beyond that it was also his father’s middle name, he took another approach. “That name, Devereaux, it isn’t on any of my IDs.”

“But it is on your birth certificate,” she countered, flipping open a folder at her elbow he hadn’t noticed and handing him a copy of exactly that. He hadn’t even seen the document in years, but there it was, in his parents’ own handwriting.

A memory pushed its way forward, from when he had once seen this paper in his dad’s office filing cabinet as a kid, asking what it was, sounding out all the names, asking about the extra ones and being brushed off with _knowing when he was older_. Just like dozens of other things he’d asked as a bright, precocious kid, like what taxes were and why Katie was suddenly bought special pink boxes at the grocery store when he was never allowed to get a candy bar. “I don’t understand how that’s there,” he said, handing it back and picking up another tea sandwich from the tray, feigning nonchalance.

“Yes, well,” Clarisse took the copy back, “Certainly, names are often changed or dropped for ease of use and other reasons. Your father’s given name is not Robert either, you know.”

He grimaced, “Granville isn’t exactly catchy in Hollywood.”

Aunt Clarisse tittered a laugh, her eyes sparkling at him. “You do take after him. And your grandmother on your mum’s side, she was a quite a remarkable woman. I can see her fire in you. But this is not simply about names, Christopher. My country is in need of a ruler, and it is my duty to secure that ruler in my son’s stead. With the abdication of his daughter the Princess, and the absence of any closer relatives, you are now Lord, Head of the House of Devereaux, and by your birthright, you can claim the throne.”

“The throne,” he repeated.

“The throne, and rule of Genovia,” she clarified.

“No,” Chris insisted, because he knew all about laws of succession, he’d studied monarchies. There was blood proximity, gender, birth order… “No, my dad is still alive, my sister—”

“Your father had no claim until the death of my son, in which he could have become Regent in my place until Amelia was old enough to take the throne. However, he quickly refused and forfeited his claim at that juncture, citing his family and career. You mustn’t blame him, dear,” she added, seeing his rising irritation, “From what I understand, his mother renounced everything of her former life when she came to America. Your father was never aware of his birthright, just like you.”

“But he still knew before this,” he said, “When you came for Katie. Even before that.”

“Yes,” she conceded with a nod. “Your lovely sister, as you know, visited with me in Genovia when she was a teenager. Katherine was not then old enough for the Regency either, but it was important to cultivate options, should the Princess refuse her place or any other exigent circumstance occur. However she did not, and for the last several years, we have operated under the assumption that Amelia would take the throne. But Amelia has chosen to abdicate, and Katherine renounced her claim as soon as she opened the door to me yesterday. Understandably, she has her young family to think of,” Aunt Clarisse looked fretful and sighed, “Now I am afraid we are back to where we began. And you, my dear, are next in the line of succession.”

Chris put down the cucumber sandwich and sat back in his chair. “You’re… you’re sure about this?”

“I am quite certain.”

Under the table he grabbed for his leg and pinched through his jeans; it hurt. “I’m kind of waiting for the candid camera reveal, or something. Are you really serious?”

Aunt Clarisse smiled apologetically, “I am. I’m afraid it is no joke. You are taking it quite well. Young Amelia ran away in tears when she was first informed.”

“I might puke, you’re not out of the woods yet,” he swallowed. The waiter guy eyeballed him warily. Chris shook his head and put his face in his hands for a moment. “Why now? I’m twenty-two. You could have told me this years ago, I could have been better prepared.”

"I know,” she said gently, “You were too young, and there were many more variables until very recently. I understand this is difficult. Which is why I will give you a choice, Christopher, and time. Time to learn about our wonderful country and your place there, and time to think about whether or not it is something you wish. If you will allow me, I would like to show you your rightful place in Genovia, as our King.”

Chris swallowed again, eyes widening at the word that had not, so far, entered this conversation. “King?”

“Yes.”

 _King_. That was a hell of a lot of responsibility. The very thought should send him out of here like his ass was on fire—but who was he if the word didn’t conjure up all kinds of the images and ideologies he’d grown up imagining and fantasizing about and studying all his life? He’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t intrigued.

“What would happen if I refuse?” he asked.

“The search will continue. There are few others among related families left now,” Aunt Clarisse looked especially grave. “Your nephew Luca is second to you, and of course, he is far too young.”

He blanched, an enormous bubble of fear swelling in his chest. Little Luca, having all this thrust on him someday. Already Chris knew how much influence he’d had on the kid’s perception of the world. 

“Why can’t you rule?” he tried to find another way out, “You are, I mean you have been for all intents and purposes for a while, right? Why can’t you just…”

“My dear,” she answered, “I am a blessed woman, but even I won’t live forever.”

 

When the limo left him back on his parents’ front lawn a mere hour later, his home for the majority of his life, he wasn’t sure if he belonged here. Maybe he didn’t belong anywhere. Not in LA, or Berkeley, or Genovia, or anywhere else he’d ever been. His immediate desire was to run, run far away and hide somewhere no one would ever find him.

He opened the front door and found everyone gathered in the living room, watching Luca play on the floor before each set of eyes rose to him. Their faces all spoke of knowledge and apprehension and guilt.

“Chris?” his mom broke the eerie quiet.

Without a word, he turned to the hallway.

“Honey, we should talk—”

“No. You knew,” putting out a hand to stop her words, he looked at them all individually, “You all knew about this, and not one of you thought it might be important to tell me. Well, now it’s important.”

His eyes lingered on Luca with his action figures, the only one who had no idea what was going on, innocent of anything that could come his way in the future, if Chris didn’t step up. They’d all sat here and indulged his fantasies and obsessions and let them carry over to another generation, all while withholding the truth. Everything he’d known his whole life was a lie. He shook his head and went to his room to collapse on his bed.

Just a few predictable minutes later, because no one in this house could leave well enough alone, he heard his doorknob click open. He rolled over, intending to yell at whichever shrink it was to just leave him alone. Instead he found Luca there, looking confused but curious, and his anger promptly left for guilt.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, reaching out a beckoning hand. Luca crawled up on the bed, tucking his knees under him. He was still holding one of his toys, a Thor action figure.

“Uncle Chris, are you mad?” he asked quietly.

He took a deep breath, trying to center himself. “Yeah, kind of.”

“At Grammie and Pop-Pop?” he asked, and when Chris nodded, “How come?”

“They didn’t tell me something important,” he tried to explain, “Something they’ve known for a long time.”

“‘Cause you weren't big enough yet?”

“Yeah.”

“But now you’re grown up, so you can know,” Luca frowned. “So why are you mad about it?”

“‘Cause,” Chris said, “Sometimes the stuff you always wanted to know when you were a kid isn’t what you expected.”

“It’s bad?”

“Not bad, exactly,” Chris shrugged, “Just hard. Like, remember when you changed from preschool to big kid school, huh? It’s scary, sometimes. Grown ups get scared about stuff too.”

Luca’s eyes came up, “You’re mad and scared at the same time?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, “Sometimes, grown ups get angry when they’re really scared. ‘Cause we don’t like anyone to know we’re scared.”

Luca squinched up his face in thought. “Does Zach know about it? Is it why he went away?”

“No,” Chris let go a sigh at that particular reminder that he didn’t need right now, then honed in on it. “Why, did you see him today, before he left?”

“Yeah,” Luca nodded, poking at his Thor figurine, “He said he was sorry he had to go. He said he really likes us. He said one day, if I come to Denmark, he’d show me a real Viking ship. Can we go to Denmark to visit him?”

Chris swallowed, looking sadly up at his little nephew, who he loved more than he’d ever imagined. “I don’t know, buddy. It’s up to your parents.”

“Lu,” called a soft voice from the doorway, where Katie had probably been lurking for awhile. She stepped in tentatively, meeting Chris’ glare with apology in her eyes, “Grammie wants you to come help her spray the flowers, okay?”

Luca nodded, ducking down to whisper in Chris’ ear, “Don’t be scared, Uncle Chris. ‘Cause know why?”

“Why?” he whispered back.

“‘Cause you know a real Viking, and Vikings aren’t scared of anything,” Luca whispered with sparkling eyes. “Zach’ll protect you.”

Chris closed his eyes and gave the kid a squeeze. “Thanks, Lu.”

Once Luca had trotted out, Katie eased the door shut with a deep breath. Chris sat up and leaned against the wall his bed was pushed against, drawing his knees up. Most of his anger had dissipated anyway, he might as well let her say her piece.

Katie spread her hands, at a loss. “This was never supposed to happen.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “It did.”

“Chris,” she kneed up beside him, mirroring his position, and he was reminded of all the times before his teenaged angst had set in, when he was still a little kid and she was his big sis, his protector from the monsters and the bullies. “You don’t have to do it. You can say no.”

“Luca’s next after me,” he told her. “If I say no, and they make someone else Regent for awhile, it’s still gonna come back around to him someday, Kay. That’s how it works. It’s all about blood, and we’re the closest.”

She was quiet, her expression tight. Only a snivel betrayed her tears. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.” He looped his arm around her and let her lean on him.

“He’s my baby boy, Chris.”

“I know.”

A light knock sounded at the door and their dad came in, solemn-faced. He pulled Chris’ desk chair around and sat in it, facing them both and shaking his head as he spoke. “This is on me. Not either of you kids,” he straightened his shoulders, “I should take the responsibility.”

“Daddy—”

“Dad, no—” They spoke together, but were waved off.

“No, I’ve had a good long career, and you two are adults now. It’s time I buck up and do my duty.”

“No,” Chris said definitively, “Dad, even if you did, all you’d do is delay it. It’ll still come down to us, to Luca. I mean, unless I… if I have any…” Jesus, that was too much to even think about right now. He steeled himself, “I’ll do it. I don’t have any other responsibilities, I don’t have anyone depending on me… It should be me.”

His dad’s eyes were glassy, his head still shaking as if on a swivel. He reached for Chris’ ankle and squeezed. “Damn you for always being a good kid, Chris,” he said, the words tight and broken. “You don’t have to decide right now. You can go see what it’s like, you can make a more informed decision. And even then, you can refuse. Don’t let her convince you you don’t have a choice. It’s your life.”

“I know,” he said, “I will.”

Finally, his dad’s head nodded instead of shook. Still, he stood up to take both his kids’ hands to pull them up into a hug together. “You kids and your mom are everything to me, you know that? Whatever you do, I’ll be proud of you.”

With a final squeeze, he left them alone.

Katie let out a deep exhale, swiping at an errant tear, “I wanted to tell you, you know,” she confessed. “When we were kids, and you were so into your stories. All the things I could have told you about that place! But I wasn’t allowed. And then it didn’t matter anymore and I just forgot about it over the years, until she showed up yesterday. I never even told David until now. I really am sorry.”

Chris let his head fall back to the wall with a sigh. “You didn’t get caught up in it, though? Even when you went out there?”

“Maybe a little,” she shrugged. “But I didn’t have the maturity for it back then. I just wanted to live through high school at that point. Anyway, you knew me then, I never wanted to be a pretty princess.”

“Oh yeah, the goth grunge years.” He breathed a little puff of a laugh, thinking about all his stories and the things that would have entertained him at the time. “Is it a real castle?”

Katie laughed, shoving at his shoulder. “It’s a real castle, with towers and everything. There’s a guard house and a throne room and horse-drawn carriages and shit. You can do the royal wave.”

“The royal wave?”

“Ask Aunt Clarisse about it sometime,” she put her head on his shoulder. “You’ll love it out there. If any of us is up to that life, it’s you, Princess.”

“Shush.”

 

+

 

The cab dropped Zach in front of Putnam Hall, parting with far too many bills for the ride in from the San Fran airport, along with the significant amount he’d dropped for a last minute flight from LA on a holiday weekend—he also had a newfound and disgusted understanding of the term “cattle class”, which he’d never before experienced. But he’d successfully made his escape, unsure of what exactly it was he was running from this time. Guilt was yet another emotion he was unfamiliar with, and Chris was becoming associated with quite a few of those.

What had happened at Chris’ house was unexpected, to say the least. He hadn’t lied; he’d gone with the full intention of being on his best behavior, and had—for the most part, he thought—succeeded. He had not really expected Chris to warm to him more than he had in the past several weeks, but he would have had to be dead not to respond. The sudden turnaround would thrill him if not for what had happened next.

It had taken him a moment to place her, but Zach knew who Queen Clarisse Renaldi was. They’d never been formally introduced, but he’d seen her more than once at events over the years. He suspected she knew him as well, by name if not by reputation, considering she hadn’t outed him upon meeting in the Pine family dining room. He knew she and Razz had known each other since their school days, and were not exactly friends. His mother had spoken fondly of the tiny nation on the border of France and Italy, something about the quality of their orphanages, but he personally knew very little about it and its politics. The country owed its very existence to an alliance between the ruling Houses of Savoy and Renaldi during the Renaissance Wars. He should probably know more than this, considering it was part of his own ancestry.

As much as they’d finally struck up an accord—dare he call it a friendship—he had not gone on this trip expecting to be welcomed with open arms and enjoy the company of the rest of Chris’ family. He’d never seen such a warm home as theirs, the little house that was filled to brimming with love, infused with memories interwoven with every member. Chris was so comfortable there, so clearly adored, and it showed in the affection he radiated out. Zach both feared and longed to know what it was to be the recipient of something so deep and inclusive. He’d never known before that it was missing in his own life until now.

But now it appeared that Queen Clarisse was Chris’ great aunt, and that the King of Genovia had been his uncle. Which meant that Chris was, in some capacity, of noble blood. And guessing by his simple family home and his intense resentment for people born to affluence, he doubted Chris knew that. Something told him Chris was about to find out, and he didn’t want to be there when he did. So he’d booked the first flight he could find and fled.

Even so, it was only a delay. They’d be back in class together by Monday morning, and Zach would have to see where it led. Leaving the ball in Chris’ court seemed like the best laid plan. Being in Chris’ good graces was the far better option. Getting to kiss him again was the best option.

Because Zach couldn’t get kissing Chris out of his head. He’d never felt such a visceral connection with another person before, so when it had clashed in that first kiss, it felt like an explosion. It was exhilarating. It was terrifying. Was this what Chris’ fairytales meant when they spoke of true love? Suddenly the notion didn’t seem so silly anymore.

The dorm building was oddly quiet with many students still away for the holiday weekend. He unlocked the door to the room, letting himself in. 

“Shit!”

Turning in surprise at the hissed outburst, he almost couldn’t believe what he saw: Anton, attempting to conceal something under the covers of his bottom bunk, which was easily revealed to be a girl. The pretty young woman from the laundry a few weeks back, unclothed by the soft sweep of shoulder he glimpsed before the blanket swept back up. Anton turned a brilliant shade of magenta from his forehead all the way down to his skinny, also nude chest.

“Sir, you weren’t—” he stammered.

Zach averted his eyes the floor for the girl’s sake, unable to keep a straight face. He waved him off with a grin, “Wow, sorry, I’ll just give you a few minutes.” 

He quickly removed himself, shutting the door behind him and heading over to the bathrooms with a snort of disbelief. This weekend was just full of surprises.

When he returned several minutes later, he found Anton fully dressed and standing guiltily in the hallway by their door. The girl was nowhere to be seen. He hung his head, twisting his hands even more as Zach approached him. “Sir, I…”

Zach steered him by the nape of the neck back into the room, biting back a smile and crossing his arms as Anton continued to stammer through profuse apologies.

“—I thought you weren’t going to be back until Sunday, I swear I didn’t—”

He waited through the string of excuses, pressing his lips together, until Anton finally stopped to take a breath, looking forlorn and deeply embarrassed. 

Then he grinned, “It’s about time.”

Anton blinked, “What?”

“Oh my god,” Zach slid a hand down his face, giggling. “How long has it been since you got laid? I’m just saying, it’s about time!”

“S-sir…”

“Hey, listen,” he took both Anton’s shoulders. “You are allowed to have a life. Outside of me. Please, have a life that is not me, okay? Just, next time, a signal? A sock on the doorknob, your girl’s hair band, something, so I don’t walk in on you again?”

Anton flushed brightly again and nodded. Zach patted his cheek, dropped his bag and collapsed heavily in the ratty desk chair.

“So,” Zach began, “Obviously you had an interesting holiday. Me too. I have some questions.”

Anton stiffened, bracing for an interrogation. “Sir.”

“What do you know about Genovia?”

Frowning at this turn, the kid lifted his shoulders. “Not much.”

“Find out,” Zach instructed, “I want to know about their royal family, houses, current succession.”

“Sir?”

Zach needed a shower and more sleep and more time to think. There would probably never be enough time to think about this. He emptied his bag on the floor, picking out his toiletries, clean clothes and his towel in the closet. “Just find out whatever you can, and be discreet about it, okay?”

 

+

 

“So what you’re saying is, you’re a prince,” Cho finally said on Sunday evening, after an hour’s explanation and numerous attempts to convince him Chris really wasn’t fucking with him. “For real.”

“Technically a lord. But like, a quasi-prince. I’m the Heir Presumptive, basically, there isn’t anyone else in line in front of me now.”

“And so you’re going out there over Winter Break to just become their King?”

“No,” Chris said, “I’m going out there to decide if I really want to.”

Cho gave an incredulous headshake, “Are you nuts? Chris, what’s to decide? You get to go live in a castle and sit on a throne and I dunno, do whatever it is the royals do these days. You love this shit. And you’d be set for life! How is this something you have to think about?”

“Because,” Chris protested, “It isn’t just about wearing a crown and being waited on, asshole, it’s running a country. It’s solving problems, it’s being responsible for an entire nation of people and what happens to them.”

“Okay but, most of these monarchies now, they’re ceremonial. You said they have a Parliament, it’s not like you’re making all the important decisions. Mostly they have you, like, christening shopping centers and kissing babies and shit.”

“Not this one,” Chris said. “My aunt said she still sits in on Parliament sometimes, and she can veto laws. If she wants to, she can dismiss them all and call for a brand new election. It’s just a lot of responsibility. I wasn't that kid, you know? I didn’t even want to be president of the Lit Club. I just wanted to talk about the books we read.”

“You just wanted to be nerdy with other like-minded nerds.”

“You should talk,” Chris shot back. Cho had been the treasurer of the club.

They went quiet in thought, the laptop with the wiki page on Genovia between them.

“It’s still pretty cool,” Cho finally said. “When you’re King, can I come hang out in your castle? Hey! Can I bring Kerri on a vacation?”

“You can’t tell Kerri,” Chris insisted. “Not yet.”

“Aw, come on!”

“John, no. Just… Just keep it to yourself, okay? I don’t even know if I’m really going to do it. So you can’t tell anyone.”

“Not even your boyfriend Zach?” Cho teased.

“Shut up, man, he’s not—” Chris paled even more, because what was Zach to him now? “Don’t tell anyone. _Especially_ not him.”

“Why not?” Cho said gleefully, “He’s some rich Euro trash. Hell, maybe you’re gonna be his kind of people now.”

“Jesus, stop,” he groaned. “No. It would be weird, and it would make things even more weird and it’s already really fucking weird as it is.”

“Oh yeah?” Cho latched right on to that, picking right up on Chris’ tendency to run his mouth when he was upset. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Something happened.”

“Nothing happened,” he evaded, and Cho punched him in the arm repeatedly until he slapped back and gave up. He couldn’t lie to his best friend to save his life, the red-cheeked grin crawling up his face was a dead giveaway. “We kind of… made out.”

Cho’s eyebrows flew up, “You _kind of_ made out.”

“Jesus,” he sighed, scrubbing at his hot face. “I dunno what even happened, man. We just sort of accidentally kissed and—”

“Accidentally?” Cho grinned, “So you just sort of accidentally tripped and landed on his tonsils? Did you at least enjoy it?”

“I… yeah?” Chris could remember Zach’s warm lips, his mobile tongue, the way his stubble tickled under his ear and made him shiver even now. “It was nice, it was really good! He’s a really fucking good kisser, and he seemed into it and I’m so confused, because… because then he just left.”

“Huh?”

“Up and left, the next day, he was gone before I even woke up,” Chris moped, wrapping his arms around his knees, “He didn’t even say goodbye. And then all this happened. So I don’t know,” he finished, mopping his hands over his hair. “I don’t know.”

 

+

 

Monday morning had Prof Reeves in full-on review mode. He spent the most of the three hour class going back over their entire semester. Zach dutifully took as many notes as Chris did. A few times, when Chris snuck a look across the table, he caught Zach looking back, and his heart cartwheeled nervously. It wasn’t the usual dark and suggestive once-over, that smug grin that spoke of someone who always got what he wanted. Now it was that same cautiousness from the backseat of the car, the kind he knew would lead to a conversation he didn’t know if he was ready for. He wanted to know why Zach left, and all he could hope for was an explanation. But he wasn’t about to tell him about Genovia. He didn’t care who Zach was back in Denmark, he wasn’t about to go spouting that he was some kind of royal heir to get his attention now.

By the time Reeves wound down, he had each set of partners write their names on a pingpong ball, then put them all in a handmade and rudimentary lottery tumbler. He took great pleasure in reading out each ball as a small fan blew them into the chute, which would determine the order in which each group would present their projects over the next three class periods. Zach and Chris would go on the first day, which was more of a relief than anything. Chris would rather get it over with so he could concentrate on studying for the final exam.

Once released, Chris headed for his customary coffee. He didn’t even have to look back to know he was being followed. Zach cleared his throat to announce himself as he pulled level with him, and Chris found himself scrambling for safe, benign conversation that didn’t start with, _What are we doing?_ or _Why did you leave?_ or _Did I do something wrong?_

“Think you’re ready for finals?” Zach asked. 

Ah. When it doubt, go with the default. “I just need to bury my face in the equations for awhile, let it all download.”

Zach chuckled awkwardly as they brought up the rear of the line at the coffee kiosk’s ordering window. “Me too.”

They stood shifting their feet, Chris concentrating on the menu as though he was debating, despite never wavering from his espresso lattes.

“Your family are really wonderful,” Zach offered, and Chris’ stomach gave an elevator drop that they'd arrived at this topic so fast. He had a lot of questions, and none of them seemed willing to solidify long enough to be voiced.

Luckily, Zach kept talking. “I’m sorry I left so early. I hope you didn’t take it as a judgement on you, or them.”

“No, no, man,” he quickly shook his head, though it wasn’t the explanation he was hoping for.

“Your parents are really nice. And your sister, and Luca…” Zach shook his head, “You come from really amazing, generous people.”

“Thanks,” Chris scraped his sneaker on the concrete with a shrug. “They’re just… you know, regular folks, I guess.”

“Maybe,” Zach told him with a wry smile, “I’ve seen families like yours on TV, but I’ve never known it can be like that in real life.”

“You say that like yours aren’t real life,” he blurted, then wished he could put the words back in as soon as they fell out of his stupid mouth. Zach just lifted his hands, palms up, like wasn’t far from the truth.

They arrived at the counter and made their orders. Zach stepped in and paid for Chris’, and he was far too off-kilter to protest.

“I just think it’s nice, you know,” he explained as they stepped aside to the wait by the pick-up window. “I never had siblings. Eddie was the closest thing I had to a brother. And I barely knew my father. He was never around before he died, and my mother is… never around.”

“You said she works with orphans,” Chris pointed out, “I bet she’s a great mom.”

“Yeah, sure, I guess,” Zach said tightly, “She’s great at mothering, as long as it’s other people’s kids. I wouldn’t know, I had nannies.”

Chris flinched at that. “What about your Uncle? Eddie’s parents, I’m assuming.”

Zach sighed hugely, looking off into the distance. “My Aunt and Uncle—”

“Have expectations?”

Zach huffed a humorless laugh. “You could say so, yeah.”

“I get that.” Chris let his eyes dart away, around the quad of milling students, standing because the grass was still cold and damp in the tentative morning sun. This conversation wasn’t going at all the way he’d expected. It had hit an unexpectedly personal depth, a little too close to things he didn’t want to bring up, and he wasn’t sure how he should respond.

“My Uncle… he’s a great man,” Zach said, his eyes on the flagstone. “He’s a well respected man, he knows what to do or say when something has gone wrong, he tries to be fair to everyone’s interests… he reminds me of your dad, actually,” he looked back with a brief smile, but then shook his head at the ground again. “I’m not used to… I’ve never really known that sort of…” he paused, looking up to find Chris’ eyes and lift his shoulders. “I guess what I mean is, I envy you your family. And I’m not used to envying anyone anything, so I guess it makes me a dick. For running away like I did. I hope your mother forgives me.”

That was why he left? Because he felt weird about Chris’ cozy little home life? He shook his head. It’s not like it mattered that much anyway, he wasn’t likely to come visiting again. “My mom fucking loves you, man, I think you’re off the hook.”

That brought a hopeful smile back to Zach’s face. “Yeah?”

“Dude, she’d probably adopt you if she could.”

Zach’s confidence seemed to return at that, eyelids hooding as his gaze dropped to Chris’ mouth. “That might get weird, actually.” 

There it was, and Chris’ heart took a hopeful little gallop around his ribs. He ducked his head at the heat he felt in his cheeks. He wanted Zach’s two fingers to hook under his chin and bring him back up, to steal another kiss like he had back in his garage, to continue where they’d left off. Maybe all could be forgiven if…

Instead, he heard Zach cough pointedly and looked back up to see him collect their coffees from the counter, holding Chris’ out to him.

“So anyway, I finished up all the diagrams for the project, and Anton helped me with the video editing. We should be all set for our presentation,” Zach told him, sipping his own coffee. “Told you I wouldn’t ruin your GPA, didn’t I?”

“Great, yeah,” Chris said, trying to ignore his disappointment. After all, he had been the one to insist he didn’t want to start anything here at school, that he wasn’t interested in messing around with anyone. Zach was obviously respecting that, because he actually wasn’t as bad a guy as Chris had initially judged him to be when he’d made such a decision.

But now that he knew that, and that Zach wanted him, and that he wanted Zach too… fuck, it was hard to resist.

 

+

 

The final weeks of the semester were predictable. Classes consisted largely of review. The campus had taken on that anxious, terrorized energy of students fretting over this final project or that exam. Libraries and study halls were packed, filled with the sounds of tapping keyboards and turning pages and the occasional slammed book and choking, panicked gasps of underclassmen on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Their science presentation was well-received, with most of the girls in the class going a little moony over their video footage of the Epic Romance of Zach and Dazzle. Reeves questioned them on their trigger mishaps and seemed impressed with their solutions. When Chris sat the written exam, despite his issues about the math, he felt pulled off the semester with a fair grade, which was probably the best he could ask. 

The only thing worrying him enormously—aside from the gigantic pear-shaped problem he had—was his Italian exam.

It was to be written as well as an oral, in which he’d not only have to recite a memorized passage, but he'd also be required to answer an impromptu line of questioning about his recitation in Italian. And while he’d gotten pretty good with understanding and reading the written words, being asked to construct a response correctly on-the-fly always tripped him up.

And of course, the best person to quiz him on it had fallen into being that weird perfect example of politeness he’d shown to Chris’ parents, and it was freaking him out. Chris hadn’t realized just how much their snarky back and forth defined their interactions until it was gone, and just how much it resembled flirting. _Was_ flirting. He’d refused to see it for what it was until now.

“ _Tu stai nelli occhi ond’amorose vespe_  
_Mi pungon sí, che ’nfin qua il sento et ploro,_  
_Et vacillando cerco il mio thesoro,_  
_Come animal che spesso adombre e ’ncespe._ ”

“ _Cavallo._ ”

Chris blinked at the interruption, losing his focus.

Zach straightened up, “ _’Come cavallo che spessa adombra e ‘ncespe’_ , ‘like a horse that shies and kicks’.”

Chris frowned, pulling the paper from behind his back to check it. “I have _animal_ here. I mean, I guess it depends on who translated it, though.”

“Ah-ah,” Zach corrected, “ _In Italiano_.”

“Zach,” he let out an exhausted sigh.

“This could be something your prof will ask you,” Zach countered him. “I mean, creature or animal is generic, but a horse is more in keeping with the romance of the poem, I think.”

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. They’d been hitting the books hard for a couple of hours, and he was starting to lose his mind. “I don’t want to argue the translation that came off the internet, Zach, I have no idea which one is more accurate.”

“I’m not arguing what’s correct, I’m just trying to think like your teacher will, especially if you were technically supposed to translate it yourself.” Zach looked at the poem again, one of Petrarch’s many love sonnets. He recited the first stanza in English:

“ _You linger around bright eyes whose loving sting_  
_Pierces me so, till I feel it and weep,_  
_And I wander searching for my treasure,_  
_Like a horse that often shies and kicks._ ”

He stood from the table he’d been leaning against and strode slowly closer, his eyes finding Chris’ face, his voice low and soft.

“ _Now I seem to find her, now I realize_  
_She’s far away, now I’m comforted, now despair,_  
_Now longing for her, now truly seeing her._ ”

Their eyes locked, and Chris swallowed thickly at the way his heart had taken up residence in his throat.

Zach cleared his own, looking back down at his own copy of the paper. “You’re right, though. I think it loses something.”

Digging his finger and thumb into his eyes, trying to get some tears to coat his contacts, Chris dropped his paper on top of his books. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“What?”

“Study,” Chris sighed, “I’m losing it. I’m gonna start speaking Italian in my sleep.”

Zach chuckled, “Is that bad?”

“ _Si!_ ” he grouched, looking out the windows. It was dark, and the remains of their Chinese take-out was congealing in its cartons. He leaned heavily on his palms on the table. “I need a break.”

Zach put his own paper down, tilting his head dryly. “This isn’t the Chris I know. What have you done with the studious, balls-to-the-wall, Christopher _I’m going to be a professor by the time I’m twenty-five_ Pine?”

Chris grinned in spite of himself. Someone told him he might be a fucking prince instead, and it was a problem. He shook his head again with a laugh, “You know, I haven’t gone out in over a year? I’m a senior. I’m almost done, I’ve worked fucking hard for this and… it’s like I forgot about having fun on the way here.”

Because if he was a prince, and someday going to be a king, going out and having any kind of fun was pretty much off the menu, right? It would all be minced and proper dinners and Parliament sessions and being an example of civilized humanity for the rest of his life, probably. He’d be introduced to some perfectly appropriate princess, have a conveniently arranged marriage and pop out a kid within a year to solve the crisis of primogeniture.

Jesus. “Let’s go out. I need a drink. I need several drinks.”

“Okay,” Zach said easily, “Let’s go out. Obviously, we need to cut loose before the rest of our lives happen.”

Chris snorted, “You’re not supposed to agree with me, man, you’re supposed to tell me to grow up and be responsible.”

“No, seriously!” Zach laughed, “Did I somehow morph into a person who seems grown up and responsible?”

“Right, because you never go out?” Chris challenged. “Guy like you, I bet you’re out every night.”

“That’s a bet you’d lose, unless you count after-work beers at the Bite,” Zach raked a hand through his hair, fixing him with a tired, lopsided grin that was extremely attractive. “Fuck knows I could use it too. I haven’t been out since I was still in London.”

He sounded surprisingly genuine, and as often as Chris saw him during his bar shifts and early mornings after, he found himself believing him.

“Come on,” he said, striding decisively over to pack his shit into his backpack.

Twenty minutes later, after depositing coats and bags at Zach’s dorm room because it was closest (Anton was nowhere to be found), they were weaving through a divey little club in the basement of an old warehouse, sufficiently dark with pockets of colored lights and tables, a thumping rhythm of music for the dance floor, and a busy bar. 

“Looks like half of Berkeley’s student population probably had the same idea,” Chris shouted to Zach as they waded into the deep crowd.

“Typical of universities around the world.”

“Is it like this where you went before?”

“Of course,” Zach grinned as they finally reached the bartender.

“I bet you’re used to being all VIP, though,” he sneered. “Cushy back rooms and shit.”

“Sometimes.” Zach looked at him sidelong, “Is that what you want to hear, Christopher? All about my wayward exploits in the seediest clubs of Europe, cage dancers and all?”

Chris huffed at his stupid mouth. No, he didn’t want to hear it. Instead he stepped up to the bar and ordered up two whiskeys for each of them, downing his first in two gulps. Now that he was committed, getting shit-faced sounded like a pretty great idea. It had been far too long since he’d let it all go, and there was more than enough that he wanted to forget about right now.

Zach merely held his own drinks as they waited for a table to vacate. Chris set in on his second glass, trying not to make a face. 

“Take it easy,” Zach watched him, his dark eyes shining in the low light. “The night is young, Pine.”

“We're not getting any younger,” he countered, wincing in spite of himself.

After a few minutes, they scooted into a table for two after the guys there left with a pair of girls. “You know, where I come from, we drink our local spirit with a dark beer. The Scots probably picked up the practice from us.”

Chris smirked. “Here you go again, the Vikings invented this and that. What now, did you invent whiskey too?”

“No,” Zach smiled, pushing his fingers through his bangs. It made his face warm and silly and soft, “Our drink is Gammel Dansk.”

“Oh right, that stuff that’s like Jager.”

“Hey now,” Zach scoffed genially, “You obviously need something lighter if you’re insulting my heritage already.”

“I don’t need to be drunk to insult your heritage, you Danish… danish!”

“What?” Zach made a face of astonishment.

“You know,” he gestured as if to a plate in front of himself, “The pastry, with cream cheese or apple in the middle, you eat it for breakfast.”

Laughing, Zach shook his head, “We call those _weinerbrod_ , Christopher. They’re Austrian, by the way.”

“Well, there’s all kinds of pastries, just those ones are called danishes.”

“What do you call croissants? Or cannoli?”

“Croissants and cannoli.”

“Unbelievable. My entire culture relegated to one pastry.”

Zach got up before Chris could say anything more, and later returned with a pair of beers and another shot of something yellowish in color.

“They don’t have a beer darker than a lager, but they have this. Which they claim is Aqvavit,” Zach wrinkled his nose up at it skeptically, “They said it comes from New Jersey.”

Chris shook his head, “Might as well.” He lifted the shot, “Bottoms up. Or what do you say in Danish?”

“Skål!” Zach toasted, lifting his own shot to clink with Chris, and they both slammed it back. 

And promptly made shocked faces. Zach briefly looked a little green as he coughed, while Chris’ eyes watered as a sharp licorice knife raced up his nose and down his throat. “Holy shit,” he wheezed.

“Oh my god,” Zach choked, chasing it with a gulp of beer and flapping his hand. Once he got a hold of himself, he said hoarsely, “That is _not_ Aqvavit. Fuck.”

Chris coughed through a laugh at the disgust on his face, dropping his own empty shot glass into Zach’s, “Has your heritage been defiled again?”

“My fucking DNA has been defiled,” Zach exclaimed, trying to wipe his tongue off on a cocktail napkin and drinking more beer, glaring accusingly at the shot glasses, “I’ll be drafting a strongly worded letter to whoever in New Jersey thinks they can get away with that shit.”

“Because they’ll listen to you as an authority, right?”

“They probably should,” Zach shook his head, eying him across the table. In the low light, it was hard to read what he was thinking. Those eyes were abyssal, predatory, thick eyelashes flickering as he blinked, licking foam from his beer off full lips. Lips Chris knew were soft and warm and pulling. He reached across the small table, tangling his fingers with Zach’s. If nothing else, it was a gesture that he hadn’t forgotten what had happened between them.

Zach didn’t pull away, though his expression again took on that wariness. Hooking their fingers together, he instigated a thumb war, earning him a smile as Zach’s larger but shorter thumb tried to capture his own.

“Tell me a secret,” Chris demanded recklessly, feeling a good buzz between his ears and in his fingertips already.

Zach shifted his thumb and Chris caught it. The war ended, but Zach didn’t let go of his hand. After a pause, he licked his lips and raised one eyebrow. “When I was sixteen, I got my eyebrow pierced.”

Chris laughed long and loud, “No fucking way.” That was the last thing he could have expected him to say. 

“Way,” Zach said, like a fucking 80’s surfer. He pointed with his free hand, “There’s still a scar. My mother almost had a stroke. Made me take it out immediately.”

Chris leaned over the table to see, still laughing. “Jesus, you rebel you.”

“Quid pro quo, Chris,” Zach replied. “Tell me something.”

“I don’t know…” Chris huffed, shaking his head. There was so much he could say, so much there wasn’t words for. He looked away to the dance floor.

“Hmm,” Zach looked thoughtful, “ _A poet buys this power of words to utter all the grim secrets of others at the cost of a little secret he himself cannot utter._ ” 

Groaning, Chris rolled his eyes, “Jesus, you never quit with Kierkegaard, do you?”

“And yet, you recognize every one,” Zach bit his lip beguilingly, following his gaze to the floor. “You want to dance?”

“What? No.”

Zach’s smile was familiar and teasing, “Why not?”

His pulse sped up at the thought. “I can’t.”

“That’s your secret?” he tilted his head, “Come on, Pine, you said you wanted to have fun.”

“Zach, I mean it,” he insisted, “I can’t dance.”

“Is that what you call dancing?” Zach gestured to the bodies writhing on the floor. “That doesn’t require talent, Chris, it requires alcohol, and you’ve had plenty of that, however shitty the taste.”

Before he could think, Zach was pulling him up and weaving between couples to the middle of the floor. The music was some techno-alt remix, designed to have just enough of a beat and melody and volume to make drunk people want to move. Once there, Zach was suddenly very, very close. Ensconced in the dense heat of other couples, Zach’s big hands found his hips, and his hips found a rhythm and Chris quickly forgot his fears.

“See?” Zach words buzzed against his cheek. He was probably yelling to be heard, but it sounded low, just for him, breath hot and moist, lips brushing his skin. “No one’s watching, no one’s judging your moves here. This isn’t dancing, Chris, this is just two people, in time with each other. You know how to do this. I know you do.”

Chris took a deep breath, smelling beer and caraway and Zach, who smelled like rich earth and warm blankets, whose body brushed up against his, warm and solid, whose chest hair peeked from the vee of his sweater, whose eyes shone with the red and purple and green lights swirling above them. His senses narrowed to nothing else.

His head felt so light and his body heavy, heat pooling low under the effervescence in his ribcage. The beat went on, like his pulse, Zach’s hands moving over his hips and his neck, his shoulders and down again to tangle their fingers. Chris’ were on Zach’s waist without him remembering putting them there as he rested his flushed forehead against Zach’s, earning a smile. 

“You like this, right?” Zach asked, his voice only for Chris. “Fuck everything else for a while, just some music, and this,” His breath was warm on Chris’ chin like a caress, “Just us. Nothing else. Just us.”

Arms sliding around Zach’s neck, his own voice felt rough and used, “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Zach sighed, and then Chris tipped forward to shut him up, unable to resist that mouth any longer. Zach made a sound he could feel between their chests, and he was gone. Minutes or hours past, and all he knew was the malty beer and bitter licorice taste of Zach’s tongue, the heat between their bodies, arousal buzzing in his ears, and the heady beat of their hearts that seemed synchronized, loud enough for the whole world to hear.

“Fuck,” he heard Zach groan into his neck, as Chris hands gripped at his belt and tugged.

“Mmm,” Chris answered. He could feel how hard Zach was against his own erection, grinding them together.

“Can we go somewhere?”

“Yeah.” He felt Zach’s warm palms on his cheeks, responded to the hard, biting kiss that followed, and felt those fingers slip down and wind with his own once again. 

He stumbled through the crowd behind Zach, a giddiness in his chest. He was overheated and drunk and incredibly turned on and Zach was finally, finally giving him everything he wanted, everything he’d denied himself for ages. His body was on fire with it, with everything that had built up between them for months.

Zach found a dim hallway, passing a long line to the bathrooms and under an old metal staircase to an upper floor. The music was muffled to just a throbbing beat, he could feel in his chest and his cock and making the metal above them ring. They were far from alone, but it was dark, barely lit with red lighting, enough that Chris ceased to care when Zach’s mouth and his heat had him pressed up against a wall.

“I want you so much,” he rumbled in his ear, breathing ragged, “Chris—”

“Yeah.”

“Is this okay?” A hand wormed down to cup him through his pants.

Chris groaned, hips leaping forward into the pressure.

Zach nipped at his bottom lip, the fingers skating up his zipper. “Can I…?”

“Fuck Zach, just fucking do it already.”

He felt his fly opened, a hot dry hand pushing in to surround him as the back of his head thunked hard against brick with his moan. The mouth bit his chin and neck, reappearing below his shirt, the air thick as the head of his cock was taken into hot wet heat that vibrated around him. His hands buried themselves in Zach’s silky hair without another thought. “Oh fuck yeah,” he hissed as he felt Zach’s tongue, every nerve lit up. He wouldn’t last a minute, it had been too long since anyone had touched him this way, it felt too good.

But abruptly, it all went to hell. There was an eruption of bright flashing lights everywhere, searing into his eyes, followed by loud shrieks and shouting. 

“Prince Zachary! Prince Zachary! Who’s your friend?”

“What the fuck!” Chris squinted, throwing a hand up as adrenaline shot through him, blinded by the flashes making spots in his eyes.

Zach shot to his feet, shielding Chris with his body as he hastily got his pants fastened. Then his arm was grabbed and yanked as he struggled to clear his vision, to look back and see what was causing the all fireworks. Zach shoved him in front, keeping him moving with a hand on his back until they burst out through a fire exit. It was drizzling outside as they emerged down an alleyway, damp cold air hitting his lungs like ice water.

“Prince Zachary! How do you like American boys? Prince Zachary! Your Highness, who’s your boyfriend?”

Zach pulled, urging him to run as the rain grew stronger, weaving out into the late night crowds of the bars and then racing through a crosswalk just before the light changed, dragging Chris down a dimmer street of closed shops and eateries as the shouting fell away.

“Zach? Zach! Hold up, man,” Chris called after him, trying to scrub the rain and the burning spots from his eyes. Zach finally stopped, dropping his hand, eyes darting back the way they’d come to ensure they’d lost their pursuers. The rain was cold, sobering him up quickly after the wild heat of the club, but his head was still spinning. “What the hell was that about? Why were they taking pictures of us?”

Jaw clenching, Zach only shook his head, rainwater dripping from his hair down his face.

“Why were they calling you that?” Chris pressed, “Your Highness? Prince Zachary?”

Zach flinched, looking at the ground, still panting to catch his breath. “Because it’s who I am.”

“What?”

Zach raked a hand up through his soaked bangs, the rain slicking it back and spiking his lashes as he guiltily met his eyes. “That’s who I am,” he repeated.

“Prince,” Chris licked the rain from his lips, snorting a disbelieving burst of laughter. He’d actually managed to forget for a few hours about the fact that _he_ was now a prince, and now there were photographers chasing after him like the paparazzi—he belatedly realized they probably weren’t _like_ the paparazzi, they were it, and this was a thing that happened to princes. And of all other crazy shit that could possibly happen, now Zach was saying he was a prince too? “Prince of _what_?”

Zach’s expression remained taut and shameful, his chest rising and falling under his soaked cashmere sweater. 

Chris parsed the full meaning of his silence out, everything he knew of Zach: European high society, boarding school education, a cousin who died and an Aunt and Uncle’s family business, and turned away in shock. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Chris,” Zach moved to catch his arm, “It doesn’t… I didn’t want to tell you because it doesn’t matter.” 

He yanked his wrist away and walked faster, his surprise condensing quickly into anger. 

“Chris, it doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything!” he yelled over his shoulder.

“No, please, please listen,” Zach pleaded, the rain coming down harder as he followed, “You and I, I never wanted us to be anything but—”

“You lied to me!” Chris shouted, whirling back around and getting in his face, “All this time, you’ve been lying, pretending to be someone you’re not, pretending like this is real?”

Zach took a step back, confusion in the set of his brow, “It _is_ real.”

“No it isn’t! None of it was!” he spat back, “Is that why you took off after everything? _You never wanted us to be anything_ , is that what you just said? A little fling with the bourgeoisie and then you’d go back home to your gilded castle? Well, great job, Your Highness. Notch your fucking belt.”

“Chris—” Zach lunged for him.

“Don’t touch me again, man,” he snarled as he stepped out of reach, noticing his fly was still undone under the button. He strode off, hastily zipping up and jogging across the street, checking behind him to be sure Zach and no one else with a camera was after him. 

The rain started to really pelt down, and he felt a hot sting amongst the cold trickle on his cheeks, slapping it angrily away. But still his breath hitched traitorously, arms curling around himself in the chill as he found an awning to stand under and dug his phone out of a damp pocket.

“Yo.”

“John? Can you come pick me up? I’m, uh, I’m at…” He blinked in the rain, leaning out to find the name of this closed barber shop and relay the closest street intersection. 

“You okay, man?” Cho asked, “I thought you were studying with Zach.”

“Fine,” Chris shivered, failing to ignore the hot spike of betrayal lodged in his throat, making his voice quaver, “I’m pretty buzzed, and we, uh… I just need to come home,” he sniffled, a whimper escaping his throat, eyes stinging, “Just… fuck it. Goddammit.”

“Hey, I’m on my way, buddy, just stay put,” Cho’s voice was cold determination, the engine of his car revving up under it. “I’m gonna kill that fucker,” Chris heard him mutter before he hung up to drive.

He leaned his head back against cold brick, watching the fluorescent bulb flicker unhappily, thumping his fist against his leg with a sob trying to masquerade as a laugh, “Knight in shining armor.”

 

+

 

Chris lay sullenly in his bed. Early tomorrow morning, he’d be boarding a plane, flying the sixteen hours it would take to bring him to Genovia. His very own kingdom, should he choose to accept it. He sat wondering when the message was supposed to self-destruct. Maybe it already did. Maybe he did, given the last time he saw Zach in person. 

Anton had shown up at their door the morning after, returning Chris’ backpack with ‘Zach’s deepest apologies’ and ‘a humble request to meet and explain’. Cho had run him off with some unsupported but colorful threats, making it clear Chris didn’t want to see either of them again. Cho had always been great to have around in this sense—neither one of them could hold their own in a real fight, but Cho had a mouth on him that could curdle milk when he got worked up. It had gotten them both out of a lot of bad situations with bullies in school.

Chris had sat his last exam for Italian, as well as his recitation. He’d hollowly repeated the words of the Petrarch sonnet, then stumbled pathetically through the professor’s questions, none of which he could remember after. He’d be lucky if he passed at all, and couldn’t bring himself to care.

His journal lay open on his chest, a fresh page dated and then a broad expanse of white he had no idea how to fill. Too much had happened since he’d last written in it. It was, ironically, as if Inigo was saying, _No, there is too much. Let me sum up_ , and he couldn’t even manage that.

A knock sounded at his door, squeaking open to a hesitant Cho. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he responded dully.

“So,” Cho said, awkwardly holding up his laptop. “There’s something I think you should see.”

Coming in, Cho set the computer on his chest. “I googled him. Zachary Quinto. He isn’t just any prince, Chris.”

Chris sighed heavily. He didn’t want confirmation of what he’d already guessed. He wasn’t really the type who ever did this sort of thing, running background checks on anyone he met. Cho regularly accused him of being a Luddite; he didn’t even have a Facebook page. Typing Zach into a search engine had never even crossed his mind. But of course, why bother when he had Cho the Ever-Nosy as a best friend?

A bunch of the links went to tabloid sites, some in other languages, easily identifiable by bright colors and caps-locked headlines. A few links down from the top was a Wikipedia page. He warily pulled it up, swept to a page showing a photo of Zach in a suit, and a whole slew of details on exactly who he was, who he was related to, a section on his cousin Edvard’s untimely death, and more that Chris’ eyes skimmed over without wanting to.

“He’s the Crown Prince of Denmark, and not just one of many. He’s it,” Cho stated the obvious, pointing at the screen, “And look, the real King, this Haraald guy, is sick. He has cancer, and dude’s already in his seventies. That means—”

“He’ll be King,” Chris finished for him with a sigh, handing it back. “Zach will be King.”

“Yeah. And he’s not exactly Prince William, you know,” Cho said, taking it to pull up another of the tabs, “Some of these tabloid stories—”

“Just… I don’t want to hear it, okay?” Chris stopped him, rolling over to face the wall. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over. Just let it go.”

He heard Cho sigh and shut the laptop, concern in his voice, “I’m just trying to look out for you, man.”

“Yeah. I know,” Chris muttered.

“Okay.” He heard Cho retreat and pull the door closed. 

The journal had fallen from his chest to his bedspread, the blank page still waiting to be filled, and no words came close to what he was feeling. He closed and locked it, tossing it toward his luggage. With any luck, he’d go to Genovia and spend a few weeks forgetting about Zach altogether.

He gave a heavy sigh and closed his eyes. “Just let it go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Petrarch Sonnet is #227 and the translation is direct from the wiki page. *shrug*


	7. Be Our Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Anton. :(
> 
> After some thought, I will be continuing this story as is with his character. I didn't want to change what I've already written and lose even more of him as a fan and a writer. He was so integral to this cast, he was a phenomenal presence, and he will be so dearly missed.

Chris woke gently from a dreamless sleep, ensconced in a cloud of a bed, nothing remotely uncomfortable despite the unfamiliar surroundings. The light peeking around the drapes was all pinkish yellow and he could hear the sounds of birdsong outside; it must be early. He rubbed crust from his eyes and stretched languorously, surprisingly well-rested. 

The room he was in was nearly the size of his and Cho’s whole apartment, with tall ceilings and tastefully decorated. Okay, so maybe there was a princess canopy of creamy chiffon draping his bed, but the rest of it was pretty nice. From his vantage of pillows, he could see a sitting area with a fireplace, a small table by the windows, a dressing screen, and an archway leading to a wardrobe room and an ensuite he’d stumbled to the night before.

His arrival had been memorable, even with the jet lag. The private plane came with beyond first class service, with meals served on real plates and cushy fully reclining chairs, the steward waking him to say, “Sir, look out your window. Welcome to Genovia.” He remembered the castle from the air as they’d flown over, built of shining stone with towers and covered parapets, nestled into the crook of a river on sprawling manicured grounds. When they’d landed, his aunt had picked him up in an unbelievable car—a gleaming 1952 Rolls Royce Silver Wraith limousine, the likes of which he’d only seen in old movies. She’d chattered as they were driven, pointing out things of significance on the way from the airport, then kept him constantly moving on a full tour of the castle, whisking him to the kitchens to feed him before finally depositing him in this room when he was dead on his feet. But it had apparently done the trick, resetting his internal clock to Genovian time.

There was knock on the door, and with little more warning, a woman strode in carrying a tablet under her arm, “Good morning, My Lord. Did you sleep well?”

“Uh,” Chris jerked up the sheets, not because he was particularly shy, but she was kind of intimidatingly amazing; beautiful and all business in a caramel power suit. “Yeah? I mean, yeah. It was great?”

A young man followed, pushing a cart that wouldn’t be out of place at a five star hotel, with some antique brass variety of a Keurig on the top, “Coffee, sir?”

“Uh, sure?” The young man blinked, still waiting politely, like a Starbucks barista. “A venti espresso latte?”

As the kid nodded and got to work, the woman strode to the windows, pulling open the drapes to let the morning sunlight stream in. She stopped at the dressing screen, bringing a robe to the bed and holding it spread out as if to help him into it. Chris scooted to the edge of the mattress, but remembered he wore only the t-shirt and undies he’d stripped down to before he collapsed face first last night. He left the sheets over his lap and cautiously just took the robe from her hands. She shrugged and moved to the adjoining room, still talking.

“I’m Zoe. If there’s anything you need during your stay in Genovia, I’m the one who makes it happen.”

By the time he tied the robe, the servant had finished his coffee. He stood, watching dumbly as the man set the table by the window with a basket of rolls, pastries, as well as plates of soft cheese and sliced pears all produced from the compartments of the cart. A variety of preserves and dressings in silver spooned little pots lined up nearby. The warm, fresh baked aromas drew Chris right in.

Zoe returned, carrying hangers of slacks and a shirt with a sweater, arranging them neatly on the hooks by the dressing screen. “These have been ordered in your size. We’ll be meeting later with your stylist for adjustments.” She selected a pair of shoes, looking back and waving at his confusion, “Well, hurry and eat. We have a busy schedule, and we don’t want to keep Madame waiting.”

“Madame?” he asked, sitting down. A pair of young women came in, curtsying to him in unison before stripping down the bed and remaking it with incredible efficiency.

“Queen Clarisse,” she informed him, “She can arrive whenever she likes, you know. Everyone else is either late or early.”

“Oh,” Chris took a sip of the coffee, which was probably the best he’d ever had. He’d have told the guy so, had he not melted away with his cart at some point while he was distracted. He took a brioche, tore it open with a gush of sweet steam, and randomly chose from one of the silver pots of jam to smear it with. Zoe took a chair across from him, perusing her tablet with a neat pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. He suddenly thought of Anton, and Zach by proxy. “So, are you like a valet? Or I guess you’d be a lady-in-waiting or something?”

The way her eyes came up made him certain he’d said the wrong thing. She tilted her head, “If you want to apply archaic sexist constructs, I suppose. Luckily, Madame is doing her best to nip that crap in the bud since… well, since certain issues have arisen.” She fixed him with an authoritative gaze, “I am your personal assistant, sir. It’s my job to wake you, manage your schedule, and basically make sure you are where you’re supposed to be at all times.”

“Okay,” he looked at her warily. “Aren’t there rules about it, though? I mean, like, if I’d been naked when you walked in…”

She leveled him a scathing look over the rim of her glasses. “This is the 21st century, sir. If you want to sleep naked, let me know, and then do me the professional courtesy of putting some pants on. Which means you get your butt out of bed when I knock.”

“Okay, sorry,” Chris said, contrite. Never mind, she was nothing like Anton. He concentrated instead on the bread, reveling in the sweet, buttery softness. He grabbed a slice of pear and cheese, eating them all together with a moan. Holy shit, the food here… it might be worth staying if he never had to live on ramen and pop tarts again. “I have a schedule?”

“As of this morning, you do,” she looked at the tablet again. “After breakfast, you will shower and dress. You will meet with Madame for a cup of tea wherein she will ask you if the accommodations are to your liking—she did make a point to have the pink wallpaper changed ahead of your arrival, so consider your answer. You’ll be filled in on protocol by Joseph, our Head of Security, then we’ll take a drive around the capital city of Pyrus. You will tour the pear orchards, a local dairy and one of the wineries. You are to accompany Madame to open a new fromagerie from very well-respected cheesemonger.

“Any questions so far?” she paused to ask.

“When is lunch?” he asked. When she pointedly eyeballed the second roll he was slathering, he shrugged, “All that food stuff, are we going to stop and eat?”

“That is before lunch, sir.”

“All of it?” he frowned.

“Yes, sir,” she said, “There will be a luncheon with Madame following, after which you will return here to meet with your stylist to get your measurements and see what he’ll can do with you before you’ll meet with Parliament. He expressly told me to tell you _not_ to eat like a pig, by the way.”

“Why do they need my measurements?” Chris scowled, “Why do I need a stylist?”

Her eyes flicked over him lightly, offering a smile, “Madame says there’s room for improvement in everyone.”

“She said I was handsome!” he sulked, “Now I’m gonna get… what, the Cinderella treatment, like a bad teen movie?”

Zoe raised an eyebrow, but gave no comment.

The morning passed in a whirlwind. Chris trailed after his aunt, often feeling in the way as Zoe pulled him to stand here and pushed him out of the way there. In one province, they visited a thoroughly modern dairy, where cows and goats happily munched away on sweet fresh hay and grains as they stepped on and off rotating mechanical milking carousels all by themselves. He sampled probably the freshest milk he’d ever had in his life—still warm and merely strained through a coffee filter.

In the next province, they walked among stands of pear trees, the purveyor of the orchard selecting a perfectly ripe fruit straight from the tree and cutting slices right there for Aunt Clarisse and one for Chris. 

Afterwards, he was taken to a stately manor house on lands filled with rows and rows of grapes, one of the wineries. He smiled and nodded politely as they toured the fine but seemingly unoccupied rooms of the house, until he was told in gentle tones that this was, in fact, Chateau Devereaux, and that the manor house, the winery, and the monetary revenue from the estate now belonged to him as Lord and Head of House. His aunt patiently explained that while the majority of the money kept up the estate and the winery, of course any profit was his to do with as he pleased, and encouraged him to sign the necessary documents to legally claim it. “Just a formality, dear,” she explained, “The winery is well managed, you needn’t get involved with it just yet.”

It was certainly a lot more money than he’d ever made at any job he’d held so far, and he felt guilty about collecting money on a business he’d had literally nothing to do with. He couldn’t imagine making decisions about it without talking to his family. It was theirs as well. 

In the capital city of Pyrus, situated near the center of the country, he stood by and watched as his aunt cut a ribbon at the new shop of an apparently famous and celebrated cheesemonger, where he was allowed to sample cheeses made from the milk of the very animals he’d just visited earlier, paired with wine from his own House.

Still, he was famished by the time they returned to the castle for lunch and dug happily into the soup and hot sandwich set before him in Aunt Clarisse’s study.

“Well, Christopher. What did you think of the countryside, the city?” his aunt asked him as she sipped at her own soup.

He considered his answer, “It’s very… I dunno. Quaint. Pastoral. It feels like going back in time, even though it’s obviously modern too. And everyone speaks English, which I didn’t expect.”

“Yes,” she nodded, “We are, of course, far smaller than most countries, so I suppose quaint can describe us. Some say we’re very provincial, whether derogatory or not—and some do, you’ll find. I feel those who do not appreciate the simpler ways of life are severely lacking in their understanding of history and civilization. The country life, Christopher, is where all mankind once resided. It’s the provider of our most basic needs, no matter who were are, and we must never forget it. From the grains in our bread and turkey in our sandwiches, the vegetables in our soup, all of it is grown, raised and processed by our citizens for our benefit, and that of their fellows. Our citizens embrace that. We are, all of us, interdependent on one another.”

He nodded, polishing off his food, though he knew he was a city boy at heart. To have drunk milk that had just come directly out of a cow and wine from a winery he apparently owned was pretty weird, but he appreciated the sentiment of knowing exactly where it came from. He had to wonder if a nation of farmers would be okay with him as their possible King.

She continued on, “Agriculture is our primary export, with tourism as the main internal revenue. The ability to speak the three official languages of the realm is of great importance to our economy. Our educational system teaches all three languages from the moment children enter primary schooling. It’s quite fortunate you’ve chosen to study those languages already.”

“I’ve taken French since middle school,” he nodded, then winced, “But I only started Italian a few years ago, I’m pretty bad at it.”

“You may find speaking it with others may help,” she said. “Have you had that opportunity, perhaps with classmates?”

“A little bit,” Chris frowned, thinking back to his study sessions with Zach. It made him feel heavy in his chest.

“It comes easier with time and exposure, like so many things. Now, I have several things to attend to this afternoon, my dear, and I believe you have an appointment with our stylist, hmm?” She neatly wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin and stood, smiling at him widely, “Oh, I can’t wait to see what he’ll do with you! He does all my styling too, you know,” she preened at her own short silvery blonde hair and silken scarf, doing a little turn to show off her dress.

“Very nice,” Chris smiled politely, but scowled as soon as she turned away.

Zoe escorted him back to his rooms, sitting on the settee with her tablet. Chris paced the room, awaiting the imminent arrival of his supposed Fairy Godmother with a Magic Wand to be turned into a Pretty Pretty Princess.

“So this… stylist,” he asked. “He’s going to do what to me, exactly?”

“Madame has commissioned him to dress you for several upcoming events during your stay, sir,” she smiled, “There’s nothing to worry about. He’s the best. Styles everyone here.”

“Including you?”

“Of course,” she said, crossing her long legs in perfectly tailored pants. “This suit is from his fall collection show in Milan. He can do his own designs or any emulate designer you like. Madame is quite fond of Gucci.”

“I don’t—” Chris started, but was cut off as the doors opened, and a stream of people flowed in, carrying tool boxes, kits, and reams of fabrics. The stylist himself was obvious as soon as he sashayed in, chattering at an assistant writing feverish notes at his elbow and directing with authoritative hand-waving and clapping.

“Seamstresses in the hall, cutters by the windows; Cynthia, do not make me expound again upon why we don’t allow reams of Tasmanian merino and D&G linens to _touch the floor_ , for god’s sake.”

He came to a stop in front of Chris, one eyebrow flying up and the eye beneath it bugging out as it took him in. Chris mirrored it, noting the skinny jeans, loud print shirt and the short, prickly caterpillar of a mustache gracing the man’s upper lip. His accent said Kiwi, if Chris had it right.

“Oh good lord,” the man said as a greeting, “I’m Karl, your salvation.”

“Thrilled,” Chris muttered, unimpressed.

“Right, let’s get started,” Karl said, turning away to rifle through one of the kits an assistant held for him, snapping his fingers behind him. “Strip.”

“’Scuse me?” Chris blinked. There were like fifteen people in his room.

The guy whirled back, flapping a hand at the rest of the people, “Oh go on, don’t be shy, we’ve seen all the biggest celebs in their birthday suits, nobody cares. Anyway, you’re not the commando type, I can tell. You have tighty-whitey Y-fronts written all over you.”

Chris pouted, “Give me a little credit, man, they're Calvin Kleins.”

“What do you want, a trophy?” Karl rolled his eyes, looping a measuring tape around his neck and tapping on the dressing screen, “Come on, mate, I keep up on all the gossip rags. You’ve already lined your prince up, so let me at least turn you into a matching set, eh?”

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Chris glowered, moving over behind the screen to unbutton and tug until he was standing there in his briefs, feeling highly exposed as the stylist came around the screen. The brows crawled up and down depending on where he looked. “Hnh. I take it back about the matching set, milord, you’re more than all right there.” 

Huffing at the blush he felt crawl down his chest, Chris folded his hands in front of his crotch. Karl grinned like a shark, tapping his finger to his chin as he appraised him, as though he was considering the purchase of a fine horse. “Broad shoulder, great guns, little pudgy in the tum, itty bitty pelvy committee, very nice. Chicken legs, but I can work with it…” He twirled a finger above his head, and Chris obediently turned around with an eyeroll. “Oh. _Oh yeah_. Manna from heaven.”

“What?” Chris wasn’t sure he’d ever heard himself broken down in such terms.

Karl spun him back around with a fierce smile, “You have a body for Armani.”

“Uh, okay?” Chris blinked owlishly back, “I never even had a body for JCPenny.”

The guy unceremoniously reached up and carded his hands through Chris’ hair, lip twitching in horror, “Who on earth cuts this mess?”

“Great Clips?” Chris shrugged, “It’s been awhile, I’ve been busy.”

“Good god,” Karl groaned, his fingers gripping in a weirdly intimate way. They trailed down to his chin to tilt him right and left, shaking his head and squinting an eye, as if waiting for a slap, “Pray I even ask what you shave this face with?”

“Barbas—?” 

“Oh no no no,” cutting him short, Karl’s fingers stopped his mouth from finishing with a pained whimper, “We’ve got a lot of work to do. And not much time. Not much time at all.” He clapped his hands in front of Chris’ nose and called, “Zozo, I hope you’ve wiped the rest of his schedge off for me, because this is gonna take all day.”

She shrugged, standing up to leave, “He’s all yours.”

Over the next several hours, Chris was poked, prodded, measured, masked, exfoliated, shaved, waxed, and moisturized to within an inch of his life. His hair was snipped and tamed into something other than the awkward brushy fluff it had always been when he’d neglected regular haircuts for studying. The seamstresses had set to altering everything that had been stocked in the closet, including the clothes he’d worn from the morning and even the simple t-shirts and jeans he’d brought with him. Meanwhile, Karl had him up on a stool, putting on this pair of slacks and that jacket to be cuffed and pinned, barking at his assistants about business casual and black tie, mohair blends and silk paisleys. Even each one of his fingers were measured—for what purpose, he had no idea.

By the end of it, however, Karl had him decked out in a lean charcoal suit with a perfectly tied double windsor, fitted to a tee and looking a thousand times better than he’d ever managed to look in any suit, including for his sister’s wedding.

When the doors to his room opened again, Aunt Clarisse entered and promptly covered her gasped surprise with both hands, “Oh Karl, you’ve done it!”

“Of course I have, Madame,” the stylist bowed. “Don’t I always?”

“Christopher, you look absolutely wonderful!”

Chris ducked his head, pushing his hands in the pockets, “Yeah?”

“Oh my goodness, we are so lucky to have Karl,” she brushed at the neat shoulders of the jacket, “When Paolo left us I was in such a state.”

“Dunno why,” Karl muttered under his breath.

“Now, are you ready?” Aunt Clarisse took both of Chris’ hands. “Zoe, Charlotte? Are we ready?”

“Yes, Madame,” Zoe stood, taking a place beside his Aunt’s PA.

“Ready for what?” Chris asked.

“Just one final thing on our agenda, my dear,” Clarisse told him, leading the way out of his rooms. “Follow me.”

“What is it?”

“There is a special session of Parliament tonight, to which you and I are expected to attend—one of the reasons there was such a rush to get you properly attired. Come, come, they should be assembling for us now, we don’t want to keep the old stuff-shirts up too late.”

“P-Parliament?” Chris stuttered. He’d once visited the state capital with his parents, but he’d never really seen any part of government operations outside of what was shone on the television.

“Yes, dear.” A growing assembly of security and other people carrying papers and guards with boxes began trailing them as they swiftly moved through the halls and down sets of stairs, “It is a simple formality we need to get out of the way and will be over with shortly, don’t you worry.”

The last ‘formality’ they’d gotten out of the way had resulted in Chris legally owning a four hundred year old winery, so he wasn't totally sure what to expect next. They stopped in an anteroom, a pair of footmen at each set of doors. Joe and Shades murmured things about Eagles and Bluebirds into their mics in the busy space. Charlotte pushed an envelope into Chris’ hand.

“What is it?”

“Your lines,” she said, which explained nothing at all.

“Now, Christopher dear, all you need do is simply read off the card when prompted,” Clarisse fussed at his tie and gave him an anxious smile, “You’ll do wonderfully, darling.”

“But what is—”

Just then, the doors opened, and the footman stepped forward to announce, “Her Majesty, Queen Clarisse Renaldi, and Lord Christopher Whitelaw Devereaux Pine.”

Aunt Clarisse strode through the doors, with Zoe and Charlotte quickly shoving Chris through to follow.

They stepped forward onto a raised dais with a speaker’s podium, facing a horseshoe-shaped chamber lined with dark hardwood desks and seats filled with men in full old-fashioned wigs and robes, each of them bowing before the Queen. When they straightened, they peered at Chris like he was some kind of bug they weren't sure what to do with. He swallowed nervously.

“Thank you. Prime Minister Motaz,” Aunt Clarisse spoke to the large goateed man at the podium, his robes clad with extra ropes and sashes to show his status. “You may proceed.”

“We gather here,” the man’s booming voice echoed in the chamber, “To recognize one who seeks claim. Said claim is heretofore valid by blood and abdication, and undisputed by challenge as of this moment, in this chamber, before these witnesses, lawful and binding.”

The man stepped back, looking to Chris and gesturing that he had the floor. His stomach dropped, eyes wide.

“The envelope, My Lord,” the Prime Minister urged out of the corner of his mouth, “Simply read from the card in the envelope.”

“Oh. Uh,” Chris quickly ripped at the envelope in his hand, finding the card within and reading aloud. “I, Christopher Whitelaw Devereaux Pine, Lord Head of Devereaux House, claim…” he stopped, reading the rest silently. He looked to his aunt, nervously meeting her eyes. “Wait,” he hissed quietly, “This means… I don’t…”

“Go ahead, dear,” she whispered encouragingly.

“But I haven’t even decided—”

“Oh my. Do give us a moment, Prime Minister,” she stepped past the big man, very close to explain in hushed tones, “This is merely a formality, dear, it does not mean you must make your decision at this very moment.”

“So I can still—”

“Yes, yes,” she murmured back, “I promise, Christopher, you still have a choice here. This is simply a ceremonial claim before Parliament. All right?”

Chris nodded, licking his lips and started over as she stepped back, reading from the card and looking out at the expectant faces. “I, Christopher Whitelaw Devereaux Pine, Lord Head of Devereaux House, claim my right by birth to succeed the throne of Genovia,” he spoke, his voice wavering slightly in the chamber.

The Prime Minister’s voice followed after his own, “Do any here present dispute this claim? Speak now!”

There was some shifting, a cough, but no one spoke, and after a few seconds, Aunt Clarisse nodded once again, then turned to a guard holding a long and narrow polished wooden case, taking from it a shining, bejeweled sword.

“The Queen Regent recognizes claim,” she said to the room at large, holding the sword out to their audience, and then turned to Chris with a slightly dry smile, “Take a knee, Lord Devereaux.”

Chris’ jaw dropped open as a pillow was placed in front of him on the dais. He obeyed with a light gasp at the beautiful sword held before him, his heart thundering in his ribs. He knew what this was, he’s seen it in a hundred movies, read about it, imagined it and played pretend as a small boy. He nervously bowed his head.

“By the powers vested in me as Queen Regent,” his aunt spoke, her voice projecting the authority of her office in the chamber. She did not touch each shoulder with the blade as he expected, but held it point down, with the hilt placed just to his forehead like a benediction, “I name thee Heir to the Kingdom of Genovia. Rise, Prince Christopher.”

Swallowing at the lump in his throat at the title, he stood, feeling a little misty and a lot stunned. Damn, he kind of wished his family were here, or Cho, or someone who could tell him if it was real.

Queen Clarisse turned to replace the sword and another guard stepped forward with second, smaller box, from which she took a shining medal on a purple loop of thick silky ribbon. She held it up in unspoken instruction, and he bent for her to lift it over his neck and arrange it over his lapels.

“I grant thee the Order of the Pear, Genovia’s highest honor,” she said, clutching his shoulders with a smile, then went up on her toes to kiss each cheek. " _Bienvenue à la maison, mon fils_ ,” she finished, gesturing to the watching Parliament and whispering, “Now you turn to be acknowledged. Give them a nod.”

He smiled weakly, turned and bowed this head. To his surprise, they all took a knee before him. On some, he saw smiles, and on others pity or suspicion, and didn’t know what to make of it.

“Thank you,” he said, unsure of his place.

The Prime Minister stepped forward to give Clarisse a deep bow, and one to him as well, “Your Majesty. Your Royal Highness. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, Prime Minister,” Clarisse returned, a hand to Chris’ back to lead him away, and as suddenly as it all began, the Parliament members were moving before the door had closed behind them.

Back in the anteroom, Chris sat heavily in the nearest chair he saw, which was appropriately enough a fainting couch, as he was feeling a little dizzy. “So… what just happened?”

“Oh, Christopher dear, I am sorry,” his aunt fretted, pacing with a hand on her forehead. “I must remember that you and I are not so acquainted just yet. And I must accept that you are not Amelia, you are a young man coming into your own, and I must attend your needs much differently.”

“Okay,” he nodded absently at whatever she was talking about. “Did you just make me a prince?”

She sat beside him on the velvet, glancing between Charlotte and Zoe in the doorway as the rest of the people filed out, “This was, as I said, a formality. By your birthright, you are the de facto Heir Presumptive, no one can dispute that. This was a little-referred-to ceremony in the case when a new House claims the right to rule. As this is the first time it has ever been performed in our history, I do hope you can forgive the confusion.”

“Oh. Okay,” he said, feeling the heavy weight of the medal hanging at the level of his heart. He tilted it to see the silver and gold inlayed designs, a sunburst with a pear in the middle, hanging from a wide purple band of silk interwoven with gold and silver.

“The Order of the Pear,” Aunt Clarisse explained. “It is bestowed upon every member of the Genovian Royal Family. You are the first of Devereaux House to wear it.”

“So, I’m really a prince?” he repeated in awe. It was childish and silly, but he had never, ever thought this could be a thing that would happen to him. It all felt like a carefully orchestrated themed vacation, but this was real.

“Yes, my dear, you _really_ are,” she said. “What do you think of that?”

He lifted a shoulder, “It’s kind of cool. But I feel like…I dunno. Medals and titles and stuff. I feel like it’s something that should be earned.”

“All princes, by birth or otherwise, must earn the respect of their title. And perhaps you will yet, my dear,” she told him kindly, helping him lift the medal off so it could be placed back in the box it had come from. “It is simply tradition. Under normal circumstances, the Order is given to a young man of the royal lineage when he comes of age—or a young lady, now that I have something to say about it, but we make do. Now,” she rose, reaching out a hand to him, “There is much more to be done.”

“Okay,” he stood, his brows pulling together. “Just… next time there’s a ceremony or something, give me a warning? So I can be prepared for this sort of thing.”

“I forget you’re the son of an actor,” she nodded, “I am sorry about that, and I shall remember it. You are the sort who likes to rehearse, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah, that would be… that would be good.”

“Well, ladies?” she turned to Zoe and Charlotte, “Come! I present His Royal Highness, Prince Christopher.”

Charlotte and Zoe both dropped curtsies, repeating, “Your Royal Highness.” It was almost tongue-in-cheek with these two, who were the closest to Aunt Clarisse and himself, but Chris still couldn’t help his blush and fidget at their smiles.

“This is nuts.”

“Indeed, and that was only the first day, dear,” Aunt Clarisse said, linking her arm in his, “How about supper?”

“God, yeah.”

 

They ate down in the kitchens, Aunt Clarisse saying she rather preferred it to the formality of the dining rooms or even her own apartments. Chris liked it too, a large but simple butcher-block table set with roasted chicken and creamy potatoes with a variety of winter squashes he’d never seen. They’d been left alone, those that had served them discreetly melting into other areas. Which was good, as he didn’t know if any of the staff should hear him voice his fears. Because no matter how much of a fairytale it seemed, he knew there was far more to it than dress-up and titles.

“Aunt Clarisse?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Do you really think I can do this?” he asked tentatively. “I mean, I don’t… I’m smart, I guess, but I’m not a politician, I’m not really suited to… this.”

“No?” she set down her fork, folding her hands beneath her chin with a sidelong smile. “Neither am I, to be honest.”

“That’s not true,” he said, “I saw you today, with the people. And all the ones here, the staff, and the Parliament. They all love you.”

“Perhaps some are fond of me, while others are merely tolerant—remember, I am not Genovian by birth either,” she said. “But what you have seen today, Christopher, amounts to very little in the way of active politics beyond many years of practice. It is being gracious, being attentive, and listening. Something I obviously must continue to work on, since I neglected to recognize some of _your_ needs today.”

Okay, but,” he tried, “There’s more to it. I know there is.”

“Very astute,” she studied him. “I have heard that you would like to be a professor.”

He looked down at his plate and nodded.

“What are the duties of a professor?” she prompted him, “Explain them to me.”

“Well, you have to know your subject, obviously,” he began, “You have to do your research, you never stop researching, pretty much. You have to create a syllabus, plan out what you’re gonna teach every semester and how to teach it, you have to make projects and come up with work and keep it interesting so the students aren’t bored and making trouble. You have to keep them in line and have enough control that they keep coming back and doing the work, otherwise, the admin will probably fire you. And you might advise some students specifically, help them get through it all,” He grinned, thinking of Prof Greenwood too. “Plus whatever essays and books you’re trying to publish, or speeches you want to give at academic conventions. It’s all kinds of things, I guess.”

“Indeed,” she said, “Now tell me, what makes you think that being a leader of a classroom is much different than being a leader of a country, aside from setting and population?”

He faltered, considering the analogy.

“Consider the Latin origin of the word ‘university’ itself; ‘universe’ being a collective, or a cooperative society. Of course, there are many other cogs in the machine of both a school or a government. A constitution of rules are written, dictating the many ways issues are handled. Security is organized for both internal and external protection. Ultimately, it is up to an individual to show up and apply themselves. Some may not, and will need to be encouraged or dealt with if they don’t wish to follow the rules as they are set. As King, not unlike a professor, you are a representative of authority, of those rules within your domain. Students and citizens alike kowtow to you out of tradition, they might even like you very much as a human being, or perhaps not. But ultimately, you are simply a piece on the chess board, surrounded by other pieces, and all must play the game by the rules. If not, things begin to fall apart.”

He nodded, still uncertain.

“I think,” she reached over to squeeze his hand, “You are a very bright, competent young man. I think your parents have done wonderfully, raising you as they did to be so well mannered, so applied to learning, so generous of spirit. These are all qualities needed in a good professor, and a good king. And a king is simply a man, don’t forget that. You needn’t be perfect, my dear. No one is.”

He collapsed in his bed later that night, staring up at the idyllic ceiling mural above his bed. On a whim, he grabbed for his phone, hoping for something familiar some link to the reality he knew. He had no idea what time it was in California, but he sent the text anyway.

_So, I’m a prince._

Cho’s response came shortly. _My Liege Lord and Majesty! To you I pledge my life!_

_But not my car. You never get to borrow my car again. I found horseshit in the footwell, asshole._

Snorting, Chris put the phone away and quickly fell asleep with a smile on his face.

 

+

 

The week progressed much as it began. When he wasn’t being poked and pinched into various fancy clothes by Karl, he attended lessons for things he never imagined he needed lessons for. With Joe’s participation, he learned how to meet and greet every possible variety of dignitary or diplomat or person of high standing, how and when and with whom he was expected to bow or shake hands—it was in these lessons he learned that Zach would never have presumed to shake the hands of his mother and sister had they not offered theirs first. He also learned that the romantic kissing of a lady’s knuckles was an absolute and unacceptable no-no. Go figure.

He learned formal dining etiquette: which of four forks and three spoons to use when, how to sit, where to place his napkin, how to cut his food. Aunt Clarisse conceded that he would perhaps never master the ‘continental art’ of holding his fork upside down and pushing food onto the back of it with his knife; she could not undo what he’d culturally absorbed as a toddler, after all.

There were times when Aunt Clarisse called upon him, in the middle of anything, to switch to French, which went okay, or to Italian, which was terrible.

Over the next few days, his schedule remained packed. He and Aunt Clarisse made dozens more appearances. There were photo-ops and press blurbs in which he’d said little, deferring to his aunt out of fear of committing some kind of royal faux pas. They reviewed the Royal Guard, a ceremonial changing that made Chris feel like a little kid at a tourist attraction. They had formal black tie dinners with dignitaries from each of the four provinces of the little country, putting his new etiquette skills into practice. And he stood by as Aunt Clarisse observed an age-old tradition of receiving citizens in the throne room to work out their problems, everything from neighboring farmers feuding over which type of manure to fertilize their shared fields, to a little girl requesting the Queen visit her lemonade stand.

Often times, he was called to his aunt’s study while she, Charlotte and Zoe discussed the upcoming days. He tried to pay attention and ask questions, but sometimes he got distracted by the refreshments, or playing with Maurice, his aunt’s big goofy white poodle. He was sneaking cookies during one of these meetings when he heard a few key terms.

“…which we shall need to provide for the guests during the ball—write that down, Charlotte, we simply mustn’t forget this time,” Aunt Clarisse was pacing before her desk, rubbing at her brow, “The last incident with Countess Gertrude was a nightmare.”

“Ball?” he interjected. All eyes fell to him and the cookie he was nibbling. He guiltily put it down on his tea saucer.

“Yes, dear, haven’t you been listening?” Aunt Clarisse said. “The ball we are holding the final evening of your stay, on New Year’s Eve.”

“Uh…”

“Your Proclamation Ball,” she patiently explained, “Is to present you to your peerage and your fellows as the potential King. It’s what we have been preparing for since you arrived.”

“Wait, but it’s a ball?” Chris looked between them all, blinking like a rabbit in headlights. He’d heard the term Proclamation thrown around numerous times, figuring it to be another type of ceremony, but this was the first he’d heard that ‘ball’ word with it. “You mean like a dance?”

“Traditionally there is dancing, yes,” Aunt Clarisse allowed, “A ball is a social event, with the intention of introductions in a setting which allows for meeting many people in a small period of time.”

“But why does it have to be a ball?” he fretted, “I didn’t even go to Prom. I went to a Sadie Hawkins dance one time in eighth grade because this girl I liked asked me, and I was so nervous I threw up on her shoes.”

“Oh goodness,” Aunt Clarisse covered a case of mild disgust with a smile, “Well, I imagine any young lady would be just as nervous to dance with such a handsome young man, don’t you?”

“Are you kidding?” Chris snorted, “Didn’t you ever see my dweeby school pictures? Whatever you think I have going for me is a recent development, okay? I mean, Mom said once the zits went away and I grew into my mouth a little, it was better but—” He glanced to Zoe for a little help, but all she did was give him a piteous look. “Look, no, I didn’t puke because of the girl. She was a sweetheart about it, even though she never went out with me again.” He sighed and mopped his face, “I was freaked out because I can’t dance.”

His Aunt’s smile only widened. “Is that all? That’s no trouble! I should have remembered,” She turned to Zoe, “Add in a half hour’s dance instruction a day until the ball, dear, wherever you can find the space.” She strode over and took his hands, “Not to worry! We’ll have you dancing in no time!”

It did nothing to calm his nerves as he was sent to his session with Karl, adding one more thing to a packed schedule.

 

This afternoon, Karl was quite literally sewing him into another fancy suit, all the while jabbering about people and events he’d done clothes for, how the old royal stylist Paolo had sold Princess Amelia out to the press trying to get notoriety, and how the Queen ought to have hired him ages ago, all with a growing collection of pins tucked into the corner of his mouth.

“I’d never do that, by the way,” he muttered around the pins, “Look at this face, hm? Picture of discretion. I know things that could stop wars and start divorce proceedings, but would I talk? No, Highness. I’ve got standards, me. Your secrets are locked up tighter than my boyfriend’s arse. Only one key to that.”

Chris rolled his eyes.

“So,” Karl said after a pause, eyes glued to his work on the lapels, “You and Prince Zachary of Denmark.” His low voice emphasized the name; Kiwi brogue pulling on the vowels, “How did that come about, hm?”

Chris scowled, pressing his lips together tightly, and averted his eyes to the window.

“He’s got quite the reputation,” Karl continued, “Been around in Paris, around in Berlin, around in London, apparently around in America—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Chris snapped over him. Karl’s eyes came up, and for a moment there was something else beneath the over-the-top flamboyant stylist. That, and the nearly imperceptible nod as he continued his sewing had Chris talking before he thought any harder about it.

“It was a mistake,” he said, giving a small headshake. “I didn’t know who he was. If I had, I never would have… I didn’t mean to get so…” he shut himself up before he said anything stupid.

Karl’s brows pulled together in the middle, his fingers slowing as he sewed. He pulled another pin free, tucking it in his mouth with the others, grunting, “Hnh.”

“What?” Chris asked, feeling defensive.

Karl shrugged, still somehow speaking around twenty or so pins tucked in the corner of his lip without losing any, “Nothing, mate. Probably a first for him, is all.”

“What is?”

“Not being recognized,” Karl said, “Granted, I dunno much about your American gossip, but round here, the royals are as much fodder as Queen Beyonce, especially his sort.”

“Goody,” Chris huffed unhappily, “Joke’s on me, the idiot American.”

“Well,” Karl tied of his stitching with a flourish, spitting out the pins into his palm before leaning close to bite off the thread and stepping back, “You’re a Genovian princeling now. Let’s have a look, eh?”

He stepped over to the big mirror, turning this way and that in the tailed coat skeptically. “Is it supposed to make my ass look like that?”

Karl tapped his chin in thought, then got down on a knee behind him, making a picture frame with his fingers and squeezing the air like an imaginary pair of ripe melons, “Actually, you're right. I could take it in another half-inch, really make that bubble butt pop. Great call.”

 

The following day, after breakfast and a trip to visit a fire station that had saved a national landmark for the presentation of a royal commendation, he’d been set with a small snack in his rooms and informed to meet his aunt in the ballroom for his first dance lesson. Oddly, it had been a messenger who delivered the request. Zoe, who had been perpetually glued to his side telling him where he needed to be and when, was nowhere to be found.

Through the large double doors of the ballroom, he found his aunt standing near a tea service and a sound system on a sideboard, though she was not alone. She was quietly speaking with someone whose back was to him, clad in a long elegant gown. He blinked, the echo of the closing door bringing their attention to him, and he saw who it was—his errant PA.

“Ah, there you are, dear, come in,” Aunt Clarisse waved him over.

“Um, wow,” he blurted, staring at Zoe as he strode over. The dress was silver, sparkly and liquidy-looking, the back of it spilling to the floor in a train. Zoe looked fabulous on any given day, but this was another level. “You look… wow.”

She shared a silly glance with Aunt Clarisse and smiled, “Thank you, sir.”

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“Because today,” she said, giving him an arch look and lifting her chin, “I’m your dance teacher.”

Chris’ smile fell, and his stomach clenched up in anxiety, “Oh.”

Aunt Clarisse looked at her fondly, “Zoe has trained classically in ballet, ballroom, and contemporary styles. She’s really very talented, my dear. I can think of no one better to instruct our prince.” She folded her hands together in her instructional mode, “Now, Christopher, our country’s style of dance has been a tradition for generations. It’s a bit like a Waltz and a Tango.”

“So, it’s a Wango,” he tried.

Aunt Clarisse paused, giving a heavy sigh with something like acceptance, “Yes, I suppose. Now, let’s begin. If you would bow to the lady, as we’ve discussed, and offer her your hand.”

Chris wished he hadn’t just eaten that snack. He probably should’ve brushed his teeth. Swallowing his nerves, he did as instructed. Zoe curtsied in response, taking his offered hand and stepping in to guide his other hand into the correct position high on her back. Clarisse hit a button on the stereo to start some light, airy music.

“Ready?”

Chris swallowed heavily, his stomach already shaky.

“Do not throw up on me,” Zoe warned him.

“Okay.”

“One, two, three…”

 

+

 

By the end of the first five days, Chris was starting to feel a little stir-crazy. The lessons continued. Zoe had taken to teaching him to dance with shoes off for the sake of her own toes, though he still had to learn to dance around the long train of the gown. Karl continued to dress him up and down like a Ken doll. He attended a session of Parliament with his aunt, trying to follow a dispute regarding land usage in the wine province.

Chris was an introvert by nature, and he felt like he’d been switched on and overwhelmed pretty much since arriving. It was when Aunt Clarisse and their respective assistants were discussing the next round of days scheduled to the minute that he finally snapped.

“Can I just…” he spoke in an exhale, standing up and walking away from the table.

“Yes?” Clarisse looked up at him from her desk, blinking over her reading glasses. “Speak your mind, dear.”

Chris breathed out slowly once again, trying to center himself and not just take off running, right here and now. “Would it be okay if… I need a break.”

“A break?”

“I… I need some time to myself,” he said, raking a hand through his hair and looking back, “I’m sorry, this is all amazing and you’ve been so good to me. But all this, this schedule, having something to do or somewhere to be every second of every day… Aunt Clarisse, I need some room to _breathe_.”

“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed, her face fraught. “Oh, Christopher, I am so sorry.”

“No, I am,” he shook his head, ashamed, “It’s just that I’ve always just been kind of a loner and now I’m supposed to get used to all this… this prince stuff and—”

“No no no, my darling, please don’t apologize,” she stood to grasp his arms. “You know, my husband was not unlike you. Nose in a novel when he was expected to be doing business. There is nothing wrong with it, I just wish you had said something sooner! Never be afraid to ask for something you need, dear. That is what we are all here for.”

“I just…” he dejectedly studied the carpeting, “I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

She smiled at him fondly, “You haven’t been disappointing at all, my dear young man. I should have told you, it is not always like this. In fact, there may be times as a monarch when you are simply spoiling for something to occupy you.” Turning to Zoe, she said, “See where you can schedule in leisure time. Our Prince deserves at least an hour or so to himself in these busy days, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he protested, knowing the schedule was already packed, “I didn’t mean I needed—”

“But I do, and you do too, my dear,” she told him, “All work and no play, you know. Being a prince does not mean you will never have any fun again. Now,” she turned, opening a drawer of her desk to pull out a leash. “How would you like to take Maurice out for a bit of a run on the lawn?”

“Now?” Chris asked, looking hopefully at the dog, who threw himself wagging at the Queen’s feet, positively rhapsodic at the sight of his leash. 

“Of course, dear,” she snapped the lead on to the dog’s collar and held it out.

“Wanna go play, buddy?” Chris took it, throwing a last look to his aunt in gratitude. “You wanna go? Wanna go outside, boy?”

Maurice barked and gamboled happily as they headed for the doors.

 

So it was that Chris found himself with free time. At first, he wasn’t sure what to do with it, wandering aimlessly around the castle, feeling like he was trespassing and asking anyone he came upon if it was okay for him to be there. He strolled in and out of reception rooms, parlors and halls, looking at centuries worth of Renaldi history in the form of paintings and tapestries. He went down to the kitchens and spoke to the cooks and bakers, likely getting in their way while they indulged him with treats and smiles. He discovered a beautiful study filled with old books that he had to be pried away from.

He wandered outdoors through the gardens, immaculately tended with plants that must be adapted to the temperate climate of the secluded Genovian Valley, green and blooming even in winter like a hidden Shangri-la. He found a serene stone fountain, full of lilies, a flat park that might be used as some kind of pitch for whatever sports royals took part in—cricket, or archery, maybe. Closer to a wooded area sat a pond where ducks and even an elegant pair of swans swam, surrounded with old growth oaks. 

Sometimes, he let himself get caught up in it. For brief moments, he could look through their trunks back at the castle and imagine this was his life, and that he was a prince after all, that this real world fairytale was his domain. Sometimes, he thought maybe he could do this. Other times, he wanted to grow a beard and disappear into the mountains, never to be heard from again.

He discovered the stables one afternoon, the familiar smells of leather and molasses and horses, watching the grooms brush them down or take them out for exercise. He walked along rows of stalls, some empty and others occupied. From one, a stocky grey horse whuffled at him, hanging its big head over the door and nudging his pockets, looking for treats. He hesitantly lifted his hand to the horse’s forelock to scratch. The horse happily tilted into it, showing him the places around its ears to pay attention, and he thought of old Dazzle, and of course of Zach.

In the spare quiet moments he’d had here, it seemed like that was always where his thoughts returned, making his craved time alone suspect even to him. He wondered if Zach felt perfectly at home in a place like this, palaces and royal stables, at ease with a retinue of servants and guards, dinners with diplomats and formal balls. It must be so much easier for someone who’d never known anything else. And yet Zach had left it all behind and acted as if it was no big deal. The anger throbbed dully, a stone in his chest, right alongside a hurt he didn’t want to acknowledge.

It wasn’t long before Chris realized he was being shadowed on his breaks. Granted, Zoe was good at it, she usually stayed quiet and distant. Of course she needed to tell him precisely when his time was up, but Chris was still hyperaware once he’d realized her presence. And with it, there was the niggling irritation that he was never truly alone.

One afternoon, as he sat on a bench near the fountain, trying to read a very old compendium of Charles Perrault in French that he had uncovered in the library, he spotted movement beyond the topiary bushes out of the corner of his eye. There was a thunk and a muttered curse, as though she’d tripped.

He gave a sigh, “You can come out, Zoe.”

She showed herself, looking guilty. “Sorry, sir.”

He shook his head, indicating the bench beside him for her to sit. She obeyed, and he smiled weakly. “You know, you don’t have to stick around. Me having a break means you should get one too.”

“And if it wasn’t me tailing you wherever you went, sir, it would be Shades, or someone else,” she shrugged. “Security guys don’t really care if you want to be alone.”

“Watched like a hawk,” he grumbled. He found himself thinking again of Anton, always reluctant to leave Zach’s side. Now he knew why.

“Are all PA’s like this? Is it something you learn in assistant school?”

Zoe laughed, “No, it comes with practice. Besides, I do get a break. You do have a knack for picking nice locations.”

He looked her over speculatively. Like him, and like Anton and Zach, she spoke American English, and if he listened close, he thought he detected a hint of Spanish influence. “So what’s your story?”

“My story?” she turned dark eyes on him.

“Yeah, how did you end up here, doing this?” he gestured to her. “You seem like you could have done a lot of things.”

She gave that a side-eye, “And what does that mean, sir?”

He lifted his shoulders, well aware of her easy way of taking none of his shit. “You’re just… I dunno. You have a lot of things going for you, a lot of talents. You could probably do anything with them.”

Zoe eyeballed him strongly before she let her lashes drop, “Hmm. Hollywood didn’t think so.”

He grinned, crossing his arms, “I knew it. You wanted to act?”

“To act, to dance, both,” she shrugged. “I tried for awhile when I lived in New York, and then LA.” She looked pridefully up at him, and then stood, “Come here, let’s practice.”

He set the book on the bench, taking her hand and assuming the first stance. She counted lightly under her breath, moving him through the first few steps without music.

“Then what?”

“Hm?” she said distracted.

“How did you go from acting to this?”

“Well, how many not-quite-actors do you know don't have a day job? I worked behind the scenes, studio go-fering and that. PAing to the stars.”

“Get out,” he said, turning them around the fountain, “What then? How’d you get here?”

“I saw an ad,” she shrugged, “Madame was in LA for some event or another, and Charlotte was fishing for assistants. Free ticket to Europe, fairytale castle in the middle of the Mediterranean Alps? Sign me up,” she finished.

“Wow,” he shook his head with a laugh. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

Zoe lifted her shoulders, “Not really. Royals are a lot less work, to be honest. At least these ones.”

Chris snorted, spinning her out, “No way.”

“I can tell you one thing,” she rolled her eyes as she spun back into his arm, and they executed the front-to-back steps, “Madame has never asked anyone to pick the brown and orange M&M’s from her candy dish because the colors offended her, or had a hissy fit because a dressing room didn’t smell like just the right combination of lavender and bubblegum.”

“Okay, you’re gonna have to tell me who—”

“Uh-uh, PA’s never tell,” she gave him a gleaming smile as she twirled back to face him, “And we’ve got more dirty laundry on everyone than anyone.”

He searched her eyes, “Including me?”

Sympathy welled in her expression, and tilted her head. “Like I said, sir, I’ll never tell. There’s an honor code to this sort of work. And barring that, legal gags.”

He considered that, his feet moving through the steps mechanically. Chances were some people were less than honorable, if Karl’s questions were any indication. The tabloids always cited some unnamed source, the paparazzi appearing to know where someone would be, chasing them down relentlessly for anything worth covering.

But so far, none of the tabloids had connected Genovia’s newest Royal Highness with Prince Zachary’s ‘mystery man’, and it seemed like none of it had made it into American gossip, not as far as Cho was on the lookout. Thankfully, the two of them were far too low-profile to be paid any attention across the pond.

“See?” Zoe said, out of the blue as he spun her again, “You’re getting good at this. Even with shoes on.”

He smiled at the compliment. “You wanted to be an actor, a dancer. That was your dream,” When she nodded, he went on, “So how can you do this? Be on the sidelines and… and be content not having a stage like you want? Don’t you miss it?”

Zoe gazed out into the distance of the manicured gardens over his shoulder. “Sometimes. I miss the feeling, the performance. Do I wish it had gone that way? Of course. But I’m happy here.”

“Do you at least enjoy it?” he asked, “Minding silly would-be princes, making sure I stay out of trouble?”

She laughed brightly, “I’m counting my blessings.” Stepping back, she ended their impromptu dance with a little curtsy. “I’ll let you get back to your ‘alone time’. You still have about twenty minutes, sir.”

He bowed in response as expected and watched her go, wondering if he could be so content giving up everything he wanted for this life.

 

+

 

Before Chris knew it, it was Christmas Eve. Sure, there had been trees and garlands decorating the castle foyer, his aunt’s study, wreaths on most of the doors since he’d arrived, but he was so desensitized to it back home on every television and shop window for more than a month, it hadn’t even registered. With the hectic schedule here, along with an almost total lack of the accompanying media pounding it into his brain so he wouldn’t forget, he actually did. It wasn’t until his aunt bid him an off-hand ‘Merry Christmas’—after their usual informal supper in the kitchens as the plates were cleared away—that he remembered what day it was. 

Aunt Clarisse rummaged in a nearby freezer and returned to the table with a carton of ice cream set between them on the table, two spoons, and a wink.

“No bowls?”

She lifted her whole bearing primly, “If the Queen wishes to eat ice cream straight from the carton on Christmas Eve, who will stand against her?”

Chris lifted his hands, taking the second spoon she offered him, “Not me.” He dipped it in and came up with a sweet vanilla bite.

“I admit, as busy as things have been, Christmas did seem to get left by the wayside,” she said apologetically between tiny spoonfuls. “I am very sorry for that. One tends to forget holidays when one is accustomed to spending such times alone.”

He watched her sadly as she neatly set her spoon aside on a napkin.

“But I do have something for you, my dear,” she brought up a box that had been hidden beneath to the table top and slid it over to him. “Merry Christmas.”

That had him taken aback. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Certainly I did,” she retorted, “How many years have you gone without a gift from your Great Aunt?”

He looked at the neatly wrapped present, deep sapphire paper with a silver ribbon and frowned, “I don’t have anything to give you, though.”

She looked fondly on him, “I wish it was not fashionable these days to believe reciprocity must be material. You are giving me a very great deal, Christopher, simply by being here. Go on, open it.”

He pulled at the ribbon and paper, coming to a dark, leather-bound and hinged box, about four inches square. Tentatively, he lifted the top to a velvet-lined interior, and found a golden pocketwatch nestled within it. It looked old, the polished metal replete with tiny dings and marks of long wear, but exquisite in its obvious craftsmanship. Inside, the face was still, and when he delicately lifted it to his ear, he couldn’t hear it ticking.

“It must be wound everyday to work, of course, it’s quite antique,” Aunt Clarisse explained, “It has been tradition in the Renaldi family to hand down a pocketwatch through the male line since they were invented. This one is from about 1860.”

Chris stared at the face, the still hands inside, “It was your son’s.”

“Yes. And my husband’s, and his father’s before him.”

He shook his head, “Aunt Clarisse, this is too much. I don’t think I—”

“Christopher, dear,” she stopped him with a gentle hand on his wrist. “Please don’t tell me you don’t deserve it. It is a family heirloom, and regardless of whether or not you accept the throne, you are a part of this family. I want you to have it.”

Despite a cheerful staff singing carols, a delicious feast and being given the majority of the Christmas Day to himself, Chris had never had a lonelier holiday. He called his parents and his sister, and listened to Luca describe every new toy and video game he’d received with tears in his eyes. He called Cho to exchange half-insults and take royalty jokes that amounted to their version of _I miss you_ and _wish you were here_.

He wondered what Zach was doing, if he’d gone home to Denmark for the holiday. Then told himself not to wonder what Zach was doing. Zach was probably doing plenty, and he didn’t want to know what, or who, or where.

 

+

 

The following week kicked planning and preparation into high gear, and everyone on the staff ascended to a higher level of frenzy. The Christmas decorations were removed in favor of silk banners in purple and blue. Each one was embroidered with the Renaldi crest on the bottom, above it a crown, and above that, another crest that he’d learned was the heraldry of his own House Devereaux. It made sense, he supposed, but something about it still made him uncomfortable, as if his family line had just rolled up on the castle and staged a coup.

He attended more lessons, more public appearances, and more fittings. He watched Aunt Clarisse in her element, trying to learn her easy authority with deeply ingrained propriety, how she gave the same attention to government officials as she did citizens and staff, never talking down to anyone, along with keeping up with organizing and being in all the right places at all the right times.

Even Zoe’s usual cool was rattled. She left off discreetly tailing him from afar and began sticking to him like a leech on his already substantially shortened breaks, eyeing the clock every few minutes as if each second ticking by could be used elsewhere. There were times when the only way to escape her constant supervision was to the bathroom. Soon Chris started evading her on purpose, just to see if he could—most times he failed. He wondered if it met with her definition of trouble.

It was on one of these rare occasions that he succeeded in losing her, managing to hide in what appeared to be a small maid’s closet, as there were pieces of unused furniture, a few shelves of cleaning supplies, as well as sets of drawers and large skeins of fabrics in baskets.

The only light came from beneath the door and a couple of metal grates high on the opposite wall, he didn’t dare turn on the overhead lamp. He moved toward the vents, hearing a low murmur of voices echoing from the opposite side.

Stepping up onto a sheet-draped footstool, he peeked through the ornate metal grating. It took him a moment to place the vast space on the other side; it was the ballroom, and within it, he could see Aunt Clarisse speaking with Joe. 

He couldn’t hear their space-muffled words, but it seemed clear they were gently disagreeing on some point. Aunt Clarisse shook her head several times, and each time, Joe would take another decisive step closer, his body language an effort to persuade. Eventually, he neared the sideboard with the stereo, reaching over to hit the switch and filling the space with the music that Chris was intimately familiar with by now. Then Joe stepped back, bowed, and offered his hand.

Chris inhaled in surprise, watching as his aunt seemed to vacillate, reaching out and then pulling back, then reconsidering and taking Joe’s hand. Soon, they were going through the motions of the Waltz-Tango Chris had learned, and he could see the tension in Aunt Clarisse’s shoulders begin to release. He watched their smiles grow, the obvious affection that lit both of their faces for each other.

“Huh,” he said to himself. Joe was pretty fucking suave for an old guy. “So that’s a thing.”

“What’s a thing?”

Chris jumped at the presence of someone in the small space with the silence of a cat, turning to find it was just Karl.

“Highness,” the man acknowledged dryly, “Might I ask why we’re skulking and spying? Is it juicy?”

Chris huffed, “I was hiding from Zoe.”

“A lofty endeavor. She’s tenacious when it comes to your whereabouts.”

He turned his attention back to the view, “Yeah, I’m afraid she’s gonna stick me with one of those chips they put in dogs.”

Karl smirked. “And the spying?”

Chris stepped aside, making room on the footstool and gesturing to the vent, and his stylist eagerly climbed up to see for himself.

“Ah, mate,” Karl tilted his head in deference. “You’d have found them out sooner or later. Joe’s been mad for Our Majesty there for years. It’s quite the ill-fated affair.”

“Why ill-fated?”

Karl fixed him with a bulgy side-eye. “Well, he’s security, innee? Common as they come. And she’s his Queen, served since before her husband King Rupert May-He-Rest-In-Peace rested in peace. It’s scandalous.”

Chris tsked, watching them gaze into each other’s eyes as they swayed. “That’s stupid. I’m common.”

“You thought you were, but things change,” Karl shrugged a shoulder. “It’s tradition.”

“It’s a stupid tradition,” Chris countered, crossing his arms, “I don’t get this place, man. She told me herself she was all for getting rid of dumb traditions, that the monarchy had to evolve with the times, and yet here she is, dancing in secret with someone she wants but can’t have. Who’s to tell her she can’t have him?”

“Some ancient law or another, designed to keep a woman well tied down, probably,” Karl told him with an eye-roll, “More to the point, she won’t allow it for herself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard from a lady’s maid who heard from a guard who heard from a gardener that he proposed, awhile back. She refused him, claiming our then-Princess needed her guidance.” He looked askance at Chris again, “My guess is she thinks you’ll need the same, if you do decide to stay on. Only when she steps down will she allow herself anything so selfish as love. It’s how she's always been. The people come first, always.”

Chris sighed, feeling trapped. Yet another thing that depended on him making a decision. “It’s not fair.”

Karl looked through the vent again and sighed, “Aye, me. Wherefore art thou, Romeo.”

The door slammed open behind them, making them both jump and stumble off the footstool in a rush. Zoe stood on the threshold, arms crossed and murder in her eyes.

Karl held up both hands, “Found him for ya, love.”

She ignored him, sinking her talons into Chris' arm to yank him down and out the door, fuming as she dragged him along, “You were supposed to be in Madame’s office ten minutes ago.”

“She’s not gonna miss me,” Chris whined. “She’s—Ow.”

“ _She_ can show up whenever she likes, sir, and you’d better be there when she does.”

 

+

 

The evening of the Ball finally arrived, and Chris felt like a complete trainwreck. He stood in his rooms with Karl and his assistants flitting around him, tucking and stitching and poking like a particularly annoying mosquito, trying to remember how he was supposed to behave and greet kings and baronesses, how he was going to remember them if they came around more than once. He wished fiercely that he could just stick to his aunt’s side, the way he had at every public speech and award presentation and ribbon cutting, just follow her lead, but he knew this time he’d be expected to hold his own. This was, in effect, the final exam, and he wouldn’t be Chris if he didn’t try his very best on a test. And if he did accept the Kingship, he’d have to do it for the rest of his life.

“You will not sweat through these clothes,” Karl yapped at him, his assistants all circling around Chris in front of the mirror, tucking and spritzing, “It’s winter, by the way, y’know?”

“I hope you told them to turn the freaking air up, then,” he bitched back, twisting a gloved hand toward his collar. “Is this supposed to be so tight?”

“Yes, stop touching it,” Karl snapped, smacking his hand and tightening the collar further. “I swear to god.”

“My palms are itchy,” he complained.

“Deal with it,” Karl commanded. “Cardinal rules of white tie: you do not remove the gloves, you do not loosen, you do not sit, you do not spill your wine, you do not have to go to the bathroom, you do not do _anything_ , but look perfect. Which you do. And fucking sexy, I might add, unf!” He planted a smacking kiss on Chris’ shoulder, popping his ankle in the mirror. “God I’m good! If they don’t eat you up, I will, Highness.”

Smirking, Chris regarded himself in the mirror. He did look pretty amazing, with his medal neatly tucked beneath the lapels of his tailcoat and over a lightly patterned silver waistcoat, perfectly tied white bowtie, pure white gloves and shined shoes. His face was glowing and tingly from all the magic lotions and potions he’d been scrubbed and shaved with. His hair was even doing this kind of amazing swoop thing he’d only seen in magazines, and he wasn’t quite sure how his eyes seemed more blue. But the whole get-up still felt like a Halloween costume. 

And too soon, Zoe was rushing through the door in her own formal wear and a discreet earpiece of her own, “We’re ready, sir, it’s time, hurry up!”

“Okay,” he breathed, trying to psych himself up as sweat continued to trickle between his shoulder blades.

“This is your dance card,” Zoe tucked it into his jacket, Karl looking on as through she’d deigned to touch a priceless museum display.

“I have a dance card?” he squeaked as he took the engraved card filled with names back out. He'd been schooled on the most important guests he was expected to speak to, though a lot of them had begun to blur together in his head.

Zoe flashed hard eyes at him. “You have eighteen princesses and young ladies of society to entertain for a short period of time, all of which have an expectation of dancing with you. That’s why this is a _ball_ , sir. It’s tradition.”

“I don’t wanna dance with princesses!” he complained, “What happened to getting rid of stupid sexist traditions?”

“What did you think the dance lessons were for?” she shot back. “Let’s go, we can’t be late.”

“Aunt Clarisse can, though.”

“Madame is Queen and you are not, sir, however much of a diva you’re becoming. Now move your butt.”

He grudgingly but obediently followed, the usual announcements of _Bluebird on the wing_ chiming from security as they rushed through the castle to an antechamber to the ballroom’s upper balcony.

Ushered into place, he stood by as a begowned Queen Clarisse was announced at one door, and then he was at the other, by his full formal title: “His Royal Highness, Prince Christopher Whitelaw Devereaux Pine of Genovia.”

Below, a crowd of people in the finest gowns and formal suits applauded and then bowed as he met his aunt at the center of the balcony staircase. “Deep breaths, darling,” she murmured as she took his offered arm and they descended into the fray.

A string quartet began to play while waiters moved along the sidelines with glasses of wine and champagne, and Aunt Clarisse stayed with him for the first few minutes, introducing him to ambassadors, dukes, viscounts, as well as a few other princes and princesses.

Chris danced with the majority of the latter. The first was chatty, distracting him from his steps and he was sure he’d probably stepped on her toes. The second spoke Greek, he thought, certainly couldn’t make heads or tails of what she was saying. The third seemed somewhat under the weather and ran off looking green, and the fourth was quite obviously much more interested in some other prince in attendance. After that, they all started to blend together. Well, most of them did.

“I just got groped by a twelve-year-old princess of somewhere French,” Chris fumed, pausing for a much needed glass of champagne and wishing it was something far stronger. “I’m pretty freaking sure there’s no dance move where her hand squeezes my ass cheek.”

Zoe glanced at her list, “Ah. Princess Astrid of Luxembourg. She’s thirteen, actually.”

“Dude, my French slang isn’t great, but I’m pretty sure her father would murder me if I _voulait voir sa première edition de Proust_ , if you know what I mean.”

“She’s a precocious one.”

“She’s thirteen!” Chris whined. “When is this thing over?”

“Balls tend to last into the early hours of the morning.”

There was little to do but soldier on. Chris was sucked into various conversations, the subjects of most he had absolutely no idea how to respond when prompted. Chris liked to think himself educated on worldly affairs, but he had no idea how the state of the economy in Budapest affected shipping costs between Germany and Russia. He did not know why the former King of Greece’s niece marrying a member of the French National Assembly was a strategic move on her part to gain some sort of political favor that warranted eyerolls. Mostly he smiled and nodded and felt like an idiot.

Eventually, he devised a strategy of saying he had just spotted some official or another he had been meaning to speak to, which kept him from having to converse with anyone for too long.

He lingered on the sidelines by the hors d’oeuvres, little cakes and perfect nuggets of delicious food, sadly knowing his stomach couldn’t handle any of them, but a least it kept him out of the spotlight.

When it was announced a few minutes to midnight for the New Year, the Royal Guard struck up a formation leading the party out to the ballroom’s massive outer balcony overhanging the gardens. There was a countdown and all the guests ooh’d and aah’d as a brilliant fireworks show went off across the grounds. Chris even forgot himself and got little bit caught up in it; it was even better and brighter than any show he’d seen over LA. There was very little light or virtually no smog here to drown out the bright colors.

Then, as the show drew to a close, he stood behind the Prime Minister in effort to hide from Princess Astrid again, and a firm, satin-gloved hand caught on his arm, the voice attached to it quietly singsong, “Oops, careful!”

He froze, following her other hand to where it pointed to his shoe, stepping on the fancy train of some duchess’ gown.

Hastily, he yanked his foot up just as the duchess moved away, gown thankfully still intact. He breathed a sigh of relief and looked to his savior. “Hey, thanks!”

“No problem,” she said, “That could have been awkward. Trust me; been there, done that.”

She had pale ivory skin, dark hair elegantly twisted up, big brown eyes framed by strong, neat brows, and a really nice smile. Noticing gooseflesh on her bare arms, he offered his own to escort her back into the warmer ballroom after the show. As the quartet began to play once again, she seemed to remember herself, straightening to face him and hands finding the skirts of her gown. “Your Highness,” she curtsied.

Chris returned the bow, smiling back. She was very pretty, and her accent was as California as his own, unlike most of the guests. “Sorry, I suck at… I mean, I’m not any good at this. I feel like I’ve stumbled into the wrong party and all these people are too polite to tell me to leave,” he winced sheepishly. “But they’re all watching. Waiting for me to screw up.”

“I get that,” she laughed, nodding in understanding, “They’re like vultures. But you’re doing fine.”

He grinned beguilingly, “What’s your name?”

“Mia,” she smiled sweetly back, though her eyes looked somewhat guarded.

Chris nodded, tilting his head curiously, “Is it ‘Lady Mia’, or ‘Princess Mia’ or…? Because literally everyone else here seems to have some title that I’m not going to remember.”

She considered him another second before saying, “No, just Mia.”

“Okay, just Mia,” he smiled back. He knew no one invited wasn’t a Somebody From Somewhere, but she seemed nice, so he didn’t press. There was something so normal under the regal air she projected, certainly better than he did. He cleared his throat, surprising himself when he asked, “May I have this dance?”

“No,” she replied a little abruptly, big brown eyes heavy with wariness and something almost melancholy. They darted over his shoulder, and he looked back to see his aunt watching the exchange. She spoke again with sincere regret, bringing back his attention, “No, Your Highness, but thank you. Just… watch your step. And good luck.” She turned and glided away, leaving him perplexed and awkwardly rejected. He’d have to ask his aunt who she was.

“Well, well, well, Chris, short for Christopher.” 

The new voice drew his nerves taut over the rising hubbub of whispers as he turned. Striding confidently out of the crowd was Zach. He stopped before Chris, tilting his head, “My apologies, Your Highness. It’s Prince Christopher, isn’t it?”

“Not to you,” Chris growled, the coal of his anger flaring right back up. He demonstrated his own recently acquired knowledge with a snide bow, “Your Highness.”

His Royal Highness, Prince Zachary John Quinto de Monpezat, the Crown Prince of Denmark, Chris’ mind supplied from an episode of weakness when he’d gone back to the list of google links Cho had found. Most of which led him to page after page of the European equivalents of AfterElton and TMZ, with headlines in bold letters and accompanying photos: _Scandalous! Prince Zachary caught with male exotic dancer! Is he or isn’t he: Quinto seen canoodling on Lady Brigitte’s yacht! Prince Quinto ‘Does Berlin’, If You Know Wot We Mean! Princes Edvard and Zachary Cousin Orgy!?_ And by far the worst one: _Crown Prince Zachary ‘Bows Down’ to All-American Boy!_ complete with the blurry photos of that moment, that horrible moment when everything blew up and fell apart.

Tonight, however, he was entirely unmasked, immaculate in white tie and tails, with a thick blue sash across one shoulder and adorned with a plethora of medals. His hair was slicked, flawless skin aglow, the whole thing just accenting his intense features and perfect posture. He looked every inch like the royalty he was: a real, honest-to-god prince. Chris cursed his traitorous heart for the flip-flop it did.

“You look wonderful,” Zach’s words rung genuine, his eyes honest as he offered a white gloved hand, “May I have this dance?”

Chris silently raged, remembering too well the last time they’d danced together, and wondered how kosher it would be to refuse, like Mia had. Or say yes, he had no fucking idea how these people were about two dudes waltz-tangoing. He glanced around, seeing dozens of eyes and judgement already, all of them waiting to see what he’d do. Including his aunt, though nothing about her soft smile seemed to lean one direction or the other.

“Don’t worry,” Zach said, reading his mind, “It’s scandalous enough that I’ve been invited, you might as well dance with me and offend their delicate sensibilities even more.”

He sent one last look to his aunt, who merely watched instead of coming to his rescue, and grudgingly took the offered hand. Zach assumed the lead, tripping Chris up entirely and making him immediately step on Zach’s foot. He covered a wince with a biting smile, “So, it seems I wasn’t the only one hiding who I really am.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” Chris retorted, “I didn’t know.”

“Of course not. Not until your Aunt Queenie showed up a month ago,” Zach flicked his eyes toward her across the ballroom, but his expression softened when he looked back. “Anyway, I wasn’t pretending either, not about you. Not about us.”

“Is that what you tell all the boys?” Chris snarled in a whisper. “All the ones in the clubs and the fancy cars? Don’t deny it, I saw all those pictures.” It stung, as much as he hated to admit it. Chris was just one in a very long list of Zach’s exploits.

His dark eyebrows gathered in a frown, “That was before—”

“Right. Before, when they fell over themselves to be caught in a photo with you,” Chris hissed, “Before, when you weren’t pretending you weren’t a prince, you just owned who you were and used it to get all the ass you wanted.”

“Chris, look around us,” Zach whispered back, spinning them around for Chris to see the rest of the crowded ballroom and smoothly altering his steps so Chris could lead, confusing him again at the sudden switch, “There are a lot of princes. It doesn’t actually mean much in the grand scheme of things.”

“Up until Eddie fell off his horse, right?”

Zach closed his eyes a hair longer than a blink, ardent when he opened them again, “Look, you’re right, okay? I didn’t want this. It should never have been me,” his voice fractured, and he lowered it again between them, “You think this is magical, that it’s one of your fairytales. For me, this is a prison I can’t escape from. I just wanted, for the last little bit of freedom I had, to be normal. You and your family showed me that.”

“You think this is normal?” Chris’s voice rose as he shoved him away. He gestured to the rest of the ballroom and all his guests in their finery. “What do you think of me now?”

Zach straightened back up, letting his arms fall to his sides, total sincerity in his face, “You aren’t any different this way. Not to me.”

Chris ground his back teeth, the hush in the room throbbing in his ears with everyone staring and witnessing his spectacular ineptitude. He could feel his whole face burning with it. There wasn’t anything he could do to save face, swallowing hard against the mortifying tightness he could feel starting in his throat, so he turned on his heel and fled.

 

+

 

“Christopher, dear?” 

He heard his aunt’s soft voice as she entered his rooms and sucked in a shuddering breath from behind his hands, trying to bring himself under control.

She came around the sofa and sat. “The Crown Prince of Denmark has taken his leave. Most of the remaining party are preparing to go as well. It is tradition for us to see our guests off.” He felt her lay a hand on his shoulder and the tenderness of it made him lose it all over again. “Perhaps they can wait a moment.”

“Why was he here?” Chris sniveled. “Why did you even invite him?”

“Well,” Aunt Clarisse smoothed the knees of her gown primly, “Given that we met at your parents’ home, I thought it prudent to include someone you were already friendly with, who also has some experience in these things. I admit I was surprised to see him at your holiday dinner, but it wasn’t terribly unusual; I believe my own son received such an invitation during his time at Stanford.”

“Yeah, but that was before,” he blurted wetly, “Before I knew he was a liar, before I found out he’s an actual real-life prince!”

“You mean you didn’t know?”

“No. He never told me, he lied about it, all semester. I didn’t find out until… Oh my god. Oh my god, did _you_ see those photos too? Oh my god!” His humiliation reached a whole new level. Practically hyperventilating, he pulled a silk cushion into his lap and buried his face in it, wanting to shrivel up and die.

“Ah,” Aunt Clarisse acknowledged, averting her gaze. She spotted Zoe, quiet by the door. “Darling, would you have a tea service sent up, quickly please? A soothing chamomile, I think.”

Zoe bowed and ducked out to make the call, and his aunt sat very properly, folding her hands in her lap and not looking at him. “Well, of course, when those… photographs came about, I was furious. I’ll have you know I had a very stern chat with him about it over the phone.”

Chris lifted his eyes over the lacy hem of the pillow, “You did?”

“Oh yes, I had rung personally, intending to renounce his invitation,” she replied archly, standing again to pace in front of the couch. “Zachary does have a certain reputation. His behavior was unbecoming of a future monarch, and appalling in association with yourself. I simply cannot condone such behavior in public on your part either, Christopher. The media has yet to connect those photographs to you, and I hope they never do. As Queen, I have to be harsh, you understand, the people of the world scrutinize every move we make.” He sniveled into the pillow with shame, but felt her hand light on his knee as she sat beside him again, “But as your Aunt, I admit, I worry. For both of you.”

He turned red eyes to her. “Why both of us? Why him?”

“I know it might be hard to believe, my dear, but I was young once,” she told him, “And I do understand the desire to be seen by others on equal terms, without the stigma of class or titles that so many people cannot see past. Did I not conceal my true identity from you as well, until it became necessary to tell you?”

Chris didn’t know what to feel. It was true, it was the exact same omission, though he only felt a dull swell of betrayal to realize it now. Yet, he never once felt such anger toward her as he did toward Zach about it. Why was it any different?

“It’s true Zachary has been reckless, has adamantly refused to conform to the expectations of his pedigree. But like you, he has also had a great and unexpected burden thrust upon him, and… I don’t know that he is being afforded the same patience and guidance I am attempting to give you.” She touched her fingertips to her mouth in thought, eyes fretful and inward at some memory. “I think he must be frightened, and very lonely.”

“He could refuse,” Chris tried. “Just like me, right? He could abdicate.”

“Technically, yes, he could,” she allowed, “But at what cost to his country?”

“The next person in line,” he shrugged. “It’s different there, there must be someone else.”

“And of the many monarchs among the European kingdoms in history, how many have been fit rulers, Christopher? How many have been just, and how many have exploited their people? There are some who would seek power for power’s sake, some who would abuse it, and some who are simply incapable of it at all,” she arched a keen brow. “In Genovia, and indeed in Denmark, where the sovereign still maintains considerable political sway even with a parliament and a constitution, birthright does not necessarily guarantee competence. There are few absolute monarchies left in the world for very good reason. Some people are simply not suited to govern a country, whether they are born to it or not.”

“So you think Zach is? Suited?”

She straightened herself again. “At the conclusion of the dressing down I gave him, Zachary took full responsibility of his actions. He spoke with great eloquence and deep regret over his behavior and vowed to atone for every grievance he'd caused, both to you and to our respective countries. It was an unexpected show of maturity. That is why I allowed his invitation to stand.”

“Yeah, that went well,” Chris complained, “He embarrassed me in front of you and everybody.”

“Did he? Or did you embarrass yourself?” She stood as the tea service arrived, “A man who makes mistakes, Christopher, but takes ownership of them is one whom I respect. Now, let Zoe help you out of that tuxedo, have some tea and get some rest. I’m going to see to our guests. I believe they will have to, as they say, ‘let you off the hook’.”

 

+

 

Breakfast the following morning was subdued. There was nothing more to be done, no more tight schedule beyond Chris packing up (which was likely being done for him) and being taken to the airport for his flight back home. He’d call it the real world, but now he just wasn’t sure which was which. The lines had been blurred to oblivion.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Aunt Clarisse across the table as she cut her french toast, “For my behavior last night. It was out of line. And…” he huffed, “Really embarrassing for you, I’m sure.”

She nodded, accepting, “That is good of you to consider, but you needn’t worry, dear. I cannot be upset with you. You did very well under a great deal of stress.”

“But you’re not mad about…” he hesitated, trying to find careful words.

“About what?” she tilted. “Never be afraid to ask a question.”

“That I,” he sighed and looked away, “That I’m bi. Bisexual. I mean, my family doesn’t care, they’re great, but I know some people are still really—”

She set down her silverware, reaching across to grip his hand. “Oh, my dear. I understand why you might be concerned of my opinion on the matter, but you mustn’t fret. The fact is you are certainly not the first to have alternative tastes among society, and neither is your young Prince Zachary.”

Chris kept his eyes on his food, the hurt and shame of last night still stinging. “I guess.”

“These things have often been open secrets, well known but undiscussed in polite circles. But of course, nowadays it is all changing. Your generation will be new in so many ways, and I for one am happy to use my place to embrace it. There has been much change in attitudes, even since I was your age.

“But you know these things always take time. Until it is acceptable everywhere, in all corners of the world, it will make you a subject of extra scrutiny. It is good, perhaps, that the press is not allowed a presence inside our functions, though it will not stop guests or hired workers from letting slip any details, however many confidentiality orders we have them sign. It’s an unfortunate part of this position that everyone wants to know our private business.”

He avoided her eyes as he felt his shame descend again. “I never meant to cause a scene.”

“I am not telling you to hide it, my dear, it is who you are. You were upset,” she told him, patting his hand before returning to her breakfast, “Love makes us do silly things.”

“I… no,” Chris frowned, quick to deny. “No, I’m not in love with him, it’s just—”

“Oh. Well,” she indulged him, “In that case, it was uncalled for, dear. But don’t worry. These things are quickly forgotten.”

 

Afterwards, all the staff had gathered in the main hall to bid him farewell. Overwhelmed by this surprising show, Chris went around, thanking everyone. He reached Zoe, and unable to help himself, pulled her into a hug, which was probably inappropriate, but what the hell. “Thank you,” he whispered into her hair, “For teaching me to dance.”

She smiled up at him, “Stay out of trouble, sir. Don’t make me come out there.”

“Keep taking care of that pretty face, Highness,” Karl told him, with a fist bump and a tight hug, “I’ve packed you a goody bag.”

“Will do,” Chris laughed.

Aunt Clarisse fretted over him as Joe carried his bags to the waiting car. She leaned close to kiss both of his cheeks, and accepted with a laugh when he pulled her into a hug as well.

“Oh, I will miss you too, my darling young man,” she smiled, her eyes damp, “I hope your last semester at school goes well. You have so much to offer the world, no matter what you choose.”

“I hope so,” Chris swallowed, “Thank you. For showing me all this. For everything.”

“You are most welcome, my dear,” she said almost tearfully, taking a deep breath to center herself. “Now, I shall leave you with the same advice I gave Princess Amelia. You do not have to do this. Whatever you decide, let it come from your heart,” she said kindly. “Please don’t feel pressed to make your decision right away. I promised you time, and you shall have as much as you need. Certainly, young Amelia had several years, hadn't she? What’s a little longer?” She cast her eyes to Joe as he returned to her side, and if Chris didn’t know any better, it was with a certain melancholy. “We shall, as they say, ‘stick it out’, right, Joseph?”

Joe simply inclined his head, “Madame, my place is at your side, for as long as you deem me fit.”

Before Chris had a chance to dissect that statement, she hurried him into the car and bid him _Au revoir_ and _Adieu_ , and Joe made the short drive to the Genovia International Airport, and to the waiting private jet.

He watched as Joe shouldered his bag as well as another he was sure wasn’t his own on the tarmac.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I am to accompany you back and provide any security you may require, sir,” Joe explained.

No. That wasn’t going to fly. “That’s… I mean, that’s nice, but I don’t think it’s necessary. No one at home really knows who I am, right?”

“The security of our Prince and potential future King is of paramount necessity, sir,” Joe told him resolutely.

Chris studied him, this incredibly quiet, stoic, yet formidable man. He could totally see why his aunt kept him around, and not just for simple protection. “Just the same, the potential future King would prefer it if you were keeping the reigning Queen safe. And I think you would too.”

“Sir—”

“We both know this isn’t just about security, Joe,” Chris insisted softly, “Stay. You can tell her I ordered you.”

Joe’s sharp, grey eyes flickered to the side, just for a moment, the slightest tell from so trained a man. “I will arrange for Shades to go in my stead, if you would prefer an alternative.”

“How about this,” Chris compromised, offering a hand to shake with finality. “If I figure that I need security when I get there, I promise I will call you.”

“Fair enough,” Joe appraised him, taking his hand firmly. “Godspeed, sir.”

Chris nodded, looking around one more time at the beautiful landscape around him, at blue skies and snow capped mountains all around the pristine Genovian Valley. He liked it here, he had to admit. He loved the people, the simple, quiet way of life, and the food, even if it came with stiff collars and politics. He had a lot to think about, as he turned and trotted up the stairs into the waiting jet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is wondering about the inspiration behind Karl Urban’s character in this, please watch [this hilarious short](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SC_04uxImw4).


	8. He's A Tramp

The first days back in Berkeley were surreal. Gone were the easy mornings waking up to perfect lattes prepared at his bedside, fresh scones with preserves, soft boiled eggs and fruit, french toast with pears poached in brandy. There was no Zoe telling him what was on his agenda, no Karl choosing what he should wear. No Aunt Clarisse offering her reassurance when his fears and doubts came back around. There were no more fancy cars or formal dinners or ‘yes, sir’s, although Cho did keep up with the Jeeves act long after it stopped being funny.

There was only the unpleasant blare of his alarm too early, cold pop tarts and ramen supplemented with the occasional meatball sub, a boring Modern Poetry class for a couple more easy credits instead of Russian Lit, and still no time for coffee before his godawful Physics class.

And Zach, staring after him with hangdog eyes as Chris deliberately chose an empty seat next to a girl near the back of the science lab, effectively ending their forced partnership.

After the usual lecture and experiment, Chris took off for his coffee, ignoring the calls of his name, though Zach’s long legs easily caught up.

“Chris, please,” he tried, “I just want to—”

“Quit bothering me,” Chris shot at him. If he hadn’t just hit the end of a reasonably short line at the coffee kiosk, he'd keep walking. “You’ve fucked up enough, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Zach bowed his head contritely, “Actually, your Head of Security informed me before I left Genovia that if I ever cause you any variety of pain again, he wouldn’t be held accountable for returning the favor. Apparently he has diplomatic immunity in forty-six countries. Including Denmark.” Zach squared his stance with a deep breath, “But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to apologize. Chris, please, hear me out. I am profoundly sorry I lied to you. If we could start over and—”

“I don’t want your apologies,” Chris cut him off with a slice of his hand through the air. Zach stopped, mouth open and eyes wide as if Chris had punched him again. Highly aware of the other people watching and listening, he finished quietly, “And I don’t want to start over. I want you to leave me alone.”

“Next! Let’s keep it moving!” the barista called impatiently to Chris, who stepped up with a last dark look to make his order. Zach still stood there dumbly as Chris moved out of the way to the pick-up window, before resignation covered his face like a cloud. He nodded formally again with acceptance, and finally walked away.

Chris gave an exhale as he got his latte, grimacing at the acrid, over-roasted taste, convincing himself what he felt was relief and determination to concentrate on his own problems. He had more than enough to worry about without Zach’s shit on him too.

Which was all well and good until the press caught up with them.

Chris didn’t know how it happened, but once US gossip magazines got wind that a foreign prince had had an illicit gay affair on American soil, they had their hounds out for blood. Suddenly there was a set of photos documenting ‘Prince Zachary’s Coffee Shop Confrontation’ splashed across the front of the college magazine stands. Then, somehow, one of tabloids managed to connect the dots between the dark, blurry shots from the club and the official royal press photos of the ‘Hot New American Prince Christopher of Genovia’, and all hell broke loose.

Within days of his return to the US, he woke to reporters and photographers camped in vans on their street. Cho thought it was hilarious, but once he got over his own fifteen minutes in the sun of fielding their shouted questions, he realized what a pain in the ass it was anytime either he or Chris really needed to go anywhere, like for instance, classes, or work. Chris hid in the apartment the first day, freaked out and mortified by the relentless attention, but there was no way he could keep that up when he had his last semester of college to attend.

Getting angry and belligerent did nothing but make the herds thicken and follow him closer from place to place, shouting and hoping for an outburst. Sometimes Chris lost it and gave it to them, then burned with shame at the thought of having to explain his mouth to Aunt Clarisse.

Granted, the cameras followed Zach like dogs as well, now that his big secret was out, but he seemed to handle it with ease. Obviously, Chris thought snidely, this was hardly his first indiscretion, and he had Anton who, while pretty useless as a security grunt, was at least able to get in the way of some of the more aggressive cameramen. John attempted to do the same for Chris, though he could hardly do so all the time when he had his own classes and work to attend.

Catching them both in the same place was tantamount to An Event™ in the gossip rags, so managing to elude them was a feat harder than hiding from Zoe. The only place they could be escaped was inside school buildings and businesses. One afternoon Chris had finally managed to elude them in the little study coffeeshop he’d had frequented for years, trying to figure out his first major Italian essay without help when the last person he wanted to see walked in, as if he knew he’d find him there.

Zach stopped by Chris’ table, causing a crowd of paps to press outside the window and igniting a frenzy of flashes as he leaned over to whisper, “A little advice?”

“Not from you,” Chris bit out.

“I just mean with the paps,” Zach ventured hesitantly. “Don’t engage them. Don’t acknowledge them, don’t get mad, and don’t run. Just… go on with your business.”

Chris slammed his book shut, slapped it together with his notebook, shot Zach a glare as he shouldered his bag and stood up to ask the staff if there was a back way out. _Don’t engage, don’t acknowledge, just go on with life, huh, Your Royal Fucking Highness?_ he thought to himself, _Thanks for the tip. I’ll do that._

 

+

 

One Saturday morning, he woke to the sound of the television in the living room.

_“It’s not unusual for young European royalty to spend what they call a ‘gap year’ at American universities, usually Ivy League schools.”_

_“Well, Berkeley is West Coast Ivy!”_

_“Right!”_

_“Go Bruins!”_

Chris snorted in disgust at that.

_“Many princes and princesses attend under conditions of anonymity, so it’s no surprise that the Heir Apparent to Denmark’s throne is enrolled under the simplified name of Zachary Quinto, studying Political Science. Our sources say he even has a job at a local watering hole and lives in the dorms with a roommate!”_

_“Just like a regular guy!”_

_“And this is where it gets juicy, our American—or should we say Genovian Prince Chris Pine works at the same university bar!”_

_“You don’t say?”_

_“Well, after those pictures—”_

_“Oh, you mean_ these _pictures? Cover those eyes, kids!”_

_“Oops! Those are the ones! But ouch, our two handsome princes seem to be avoiding each other at all costs. Is there trouble in Camelot? Will there ever be a storybook wedding!?”_

_“What a modern fairytale! Let’s check in with our celebrity commentators!”_

“Will you turn that shit off?” Chris yelled from his room.

“Why?” Cho shot back gleefully, “There’s so much intrigue! Drama! Scandal!”

Chris groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. “Fuck my life.”

He got up to shower and dress for work, but as he peeked out the front curtains it was obvious getting there would be an ordeal. He was beginning to regret not taking Joe’s advice, or even having Shades around, but he wasn’t about to call him up. If Zach wasn’t resorting to the security he surely must have at his disposal, then he wasn't going to either.

“Hey, uh,” he looked to Cho apologetically, “Do you think I could take your car, or could you give me a ride?”

Cho shook his head at him in obvious exasperation, getting up to put on pants and grab his keys. He gestured to the door with a bow, taking on a stuffy accent, “Your chariot awaits, My Liege.”

 

+

 

As the second week progressed, Chris was forced to adapt. He’d had emails from Zoe, an appeal for him to keep his cool in front of the cameras and again offering to send a security detail, which he adamantly refused. Annoyingly, he found himself following Zach’s advice, putting his head down and getting to wherever he needed to go, cameras snapping along with him, shouting questions that were unfounded and often downright stupid.

“Prince Chris! Prince Chris, tell us about your royal boyfriend Prince Zachary! Chris! What are you fighting about? Prince Chris, does Genovia have gay marriage? Prince Chris, where is your crown?”

And it wasn’t just the paps. Every now and then, he’d have some student he’d never even met come up and ask to take a selfie with him. He declined, because what the fuck? He wasn’t a celebrity, he wasn’t even famous, and he certainly wasn’t about to claim notoriety for being unwilling tabloid fodder. Those were the absolute worst kind of people, and he’d grown up disgusted with their type. 

But it didn’t stop people from striking up conversation to him, either. Mostly girls, often sweet, jittery freshman would come up and hesitantly say they liked his sweater or commenting on a book he had with him. Objectively, he knew well it was all about the royalty factor and attention they were interested in, and not really him as a person, but still. He didn’t really know how to deal with it, and they were so fucking cute he couldn't really help but at least be nice about it. If he wasn’t hellbent on behaving himself—and he was, for real, this time—he might have taken advantage of it, but no. No, that was something people like Zach did. He would never be like that.

But it was still a bit of an ego boost nonetheless. He knew he looked a little bit different now. Better, thanks to Karl’s skin regime and hairstyling and new, well-tailored clothes. Even his new science partner Liz—a quirky, kind of nerdy Econ major with a dark sense of humor that he appreciated—eyeballed him in a new light.

“So are you really a prince?” she asked noncommittally one morning during labwork.

He kept his head down, shrugging, “Right now, I’m just a college student.”

She flicked her eyes across the room at Zach, who watched with big mournful eyes, completely ignoring his own partner. “Is he?”

“Yeah,” Chris grumbled despondently, “He is a real prince.”

“Weird.” 

And she left it at that, an easy acceptance for which he was grateful. He wasn’t getting it anywhere else.

Certainly not from Prof Greenberg.

“Is this actually for real?” Bruce threw a tabloid at his head when he sat down for their first meeting of the semester. “What did you do, talk to a magic mirror recently, did some little old lady give you magic fruit? Did you meet a tiny little man who made you guess his name? What?”

“Trust me, this is not turning out like any fairytale I know,” he rubbed at his eyes. He decided to leave out the part about his Aunt’s Genovian pears. That might be cutting it a little close.

Bruce listened, his facial expressions switching between curiosity and astonishment in equal parts, as he described the entire situation: how it impacted his family, especially his nephew if he didn’t step up. Once he was finished, his advisor sat back in his chair with a look of utter disbelief. “So what are you going to do now?”

“Finish my degree, first of all,” Chris lifted his shoulders.

“Well, shit,” Bruce said, fingers pressing into his forehead. “You’re willing to give up your dream for this, huh? Being a professor for being a _king_?”

“I can’t think about that now. I’m taking it one day at a time, and right now that’s getting my BA,” Chris shook his head unhappily, “Beyond that? I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Chris, your single-mindedness used to be endearing, but you know what?” his advisor shook his head, “At some point, you’re gonna have to look this thing in the face and make a decision.”

“I know that, do you think I don’t know that?” he said, his voice rising before he squashed that waver with a hard swallow. “I’m… I’m fucking scared, and I can’t… I can’t handle any of this if I don’t just concentrate on what’s in front of me right now. That’s the only way I’m gonna get through this. So can you just…”

“Hey, okay, all right,” Bruce held out a hand to settle him, blowing out a big breath himself and raising his own shoulders as he crossed his arms, “Hell, I’m supposed to advise you here, but I’ve got nothing in the rulebook for this. Have you talked to anyone? A counselor?”

Snorting, he eyed his advisor, “You know my mom and my sister are shrinks, right? Even they don’t know what to say.”

“Right, well,” Bruce looked at a loss, “Look, if you need anything… I can see if Campus Security can give you some kind of escort—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Chris evaded. “I, uh, have someone I can call.”

But he still didn’t call Joe, even as things got more out of hand. By now, the paps had their work and school schedules memorized; they knew where and when to catch them at any given time, and particularly anytime he and Zach could be caught together, they went ballistic. 

They roundly avoided each other, though that didn’t seem to stop the interest. Campus Security got involved anyway, patrolling the Science building every Monday and Thursday, after a photographer had been caught hiding out in a janitor’s closet near the lab room. Chris got called in by the Dean of Students to ask what the hell was going on and left with a warning not to incite any further disturbances. Presumably Zach received the same talking-to, as they passed each other on the way out.

At the Bite, Zach had dropped any shifts where he would have been scheduled with Chris in deference to his request to be left alone, but it still didn’t stop some crossover. Jerry had to put up a sign on the door barring cameras, but he couldn’t simply get rid of either of his best workers; if anything, they were popular and brought in more business. And despite the fact that he didn’t necessarily have to work anymore, not now that he had the profits of a winery deposited to his bank account, Chris didn’t want to leave Jerry hanging. He liked this job. It made him feel like he was still normal.

One afternoon, with the pair of them studiously avoiding each other during a shift change, and Jerry was trying to field a barrage of reporters and photographers taking over the sidewalk. They were talking and shouting over him and over each other, blocking the main entrance. Chris abandoned his bar prep and went over to help, which only escalated the flashes and shouting.

“EXCUSE ME,” an authoritative voice rose over the noise, effectively silencing the increasingly unruly crowd. Zach stepped through the door, shouldering past Chris and Jerry, a dishcloth still draped over one shoulder. The cameras lit up to blinding strobes of flashes.

“I realize this all seems very exciting,” Zach spoke loudly, “But what is actually happening is that you are disrupting this gentleman’s business by prevent his customers from entering. Here, in this place, I am a dishwasher. This man here,” he gestured to Chris, “is Berkeley’s finest bartender. That’s all we are—just people, like you, trying to make a living. So please, step aside, be on your way and allow us to serve as we have been employed. There will be no need to get the police involved, I’m sure.”

With that, he stared them all down until the first two or three reporters collected their camera guys and left, and the rest began to back off, allowing students to get by into the Bite.

That little soundbite got a lot of media coverage, much of it in a surprisingly positive light for Zach.

“ _Dishwasher King Shows US His Authority_ ”, Cho crowed the headline out loud one evening. “It says here, _‘Denmark’s Heir may only be a dishwasher in America, but he gave our sources a taste of his kingly ways in a speech at Berkeley Bites, the bar and deli where he and American-turned-Genovian Prince Chris Pine work in lowly positions. Owner Jerry Wabash claims ‘They’re just kids, let them be kids, and let me run my business’. We have to wonder what they get up to in the walk-in, as things still seem icy between our wayward royal lovers.'_ It’s your turn next, man. Show off that kingly demeanor.”

“I’ll show you my kingly demeanor,” Chris grumbled, flipping him off.

The thing was, he couldn’t stop thinking about how Zach had handled everything so easily; the paps, the media attention, the fact that he was going to be a king someday and the ability to use it to dismantle a situation with mere words.

The bitch of it was, Chris knew Zach would be the perfect person to talk to about Genovia.

He wanted to stay angry. He wanted Zach to make some other public statement so Chris could accuse him of attention-seeking and justify his irritation. He wanted Zach to come back and give him another reason to shoot him down, to say something snobbish or self-important, and he wouldn’t do it. He just kept a respectful distance, avoided drawing attention to either of them wherever possible, never looked Chris’ direction with anything other than sincerity and repentance in his face. Zach did nothing but keep his head down, ignoring his own hopeful flirty groupies and the cameras, and behaved like a dedicated student.

Chris didn’t realize how tightly he clutched his anger around him like a comfort blanket until he started peeking around its frayed edges, searching for more reasons to stay pissed, and then one day, Zach was no longer there. 

In his Physics lecture, he realized not only had Zach been absent the previous session, but his new partner had now switched tables to work as a large group of three, leaving the table they’d once occupied glaringly empty.

He didn’t see Zach or even Anton in any of the usual places he knew they could be encountered. Not by Putnam Hall or on the quad or any of the study cafes or libraries.

He showed up for his shift at work one afternoon, and Jerry informed him he had a new dishwasher to train. He hated that he had to ask.

“Where’s Zach?”

“Quit,” Jerry told him, lifting his shoulders and brows as he always did in response to this question.

“Did he, uh,” he tried to look nonchalant, “Did he say why?”

“Said it was unavoidable, he had to leave the country and go back home. Said he was, and I quote ‘incredibly sorry’,” Jerry laughed, “I never had a kid sorry about leaving this job in thirty years.”

So Zach was gone, really gone, back to Denmark where he belonged, where Chris could finally leave him behind and get on with his own life and his own issues. It should have made everything easier, a weight lifted, one bothersome problem eradicated. Even the press had finally pulled it back a bit, leaving his thoughts free to school and work and the future.

If only his brain would leave it there. The nights offered long stretches of quiet after the bustle of campus and lunch rushes and rowdy Friday nights at the bar, nothing but room for his thoughts to spin and tumble like a washer at the laundromat. 

Zach had left. He was back in that whole other world, a world Chris had had a taste of, where his every whim and desire was catered to, where he was the most important person in the room. A world everything Chris knew of Zach was one he resented, didn’t want. What had driven him back there? Was it Chris that had sent him away? Did the ever-persistent Zach, a prince so used to getting his way in every facet of his life, finally give up and go home because of him?

Chris did something he hated himself for doing. He googled. He ought to leave this nosy shit up to Cho, but he didn’t want him to know about it, so he he was on his own.

First, he simply tried Danish news outlets, then tried to narrow it down without including Zach’s name, which he already knew would blow up with a bunch of tabloids and bring his own blurry face into the mix. Eventually, he found an innocuous news video from within the week, though he couldn’t read the text or understand the voiceover. It showed Zach, smartly dressed and emerging from an ornate doorway, walking through a crowd of reporters. He was flanked by Anton and a couple of grunts to a car, where he lifted a hand briefly to wave and give a tight-lipped photo-op smile before he ducked into a limo, disappearing behind the dark tint.

Something about it made it final. Zach was thousands of miles away, halfway around the world. There was no reason for him to ever come back. And after the fiasco in Genovia, there was no reason for them to ever see each other again.

So why couldn’t Chris let it go?

 

+

 

Cho appeared in his bedroom doorway one evening with an exasperated sigh, “Jesus, man,” he said. “You really are pathetic.”

“What?”

“You’re completely in love with him, you know that, right?”

“I am not,” Chris scoffed.

“He’s gone and you’re pining about it, Princess Pinedal Pinesworth of Pinington.” Cho pulled the desk chair around to straddle it, “You are lying in bed, moping and sighing into your diary like Rapunzel waiting for Eugene to come back and save her. Singing ‘Let It Go’ ain’t doing nothing for you, man.”

“Wrong song, wrong movie,” Chris snorted, “You know that’s so not how Rapunzel even goes, right?”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he smiled. Cho was indulging him, giving his ear because he knew Chris liked telling these stories. He folded his arms behind his head on his pillow and stared unseeing up at the ceiling, “In the real Rapunzel, she isn’t even a princess, she was a poor couple’s baby that the Witch took as payment from her neighbors for stealing lettuce from her garden. She stuck her up in a hidden tower in the woods to raise as her own. And when she was a teenager, a Prince—who really was a prince—heard her singing one day when he’d taken a wrong path on his horse. So he started to visit her secretly every night, and of course they were boning the whole time.”

“Of course.”

“Of course. So she got pregnant and hid it for as long as she could under her clothes. But when the Witch found out, she cut off Rapunzel’s hair and cast her out to fend for herself. And then the next time the Prince came calling, the Witch let him climb up the hair and then shoved him out the window to fall on the thorns below, blinding and crippling him. He found his way back to his castle, but his family didn’t recognize him because he was so scarred and ugly, so they exiled him from their kingdom for claiming to be their lost heir.”

“Sheesh, this shit’s rough,” Cho shook his head. “Why do you like this stuff?”

“This one has a happy ending,” Chris smiled softly, “One day, while the Blind Prince was wandering the woods, he heard someone singing, and he knew that voice. He’d found his Rapunzel, and their twins that she had been raising in a little cottage. And she didn’t care if he was crippled and scarred and blind and not a prince anymore. She loved him. So they all lived together in the woods, happily—”

“—ever after,” Cho said it with him, grinning with another headshake. Then with a resigned exhale, he pulled a crumpled, folded envelope from his back pocket, holding it out. “He left this, before he disappeared. Well, his little lackey boy did. I didn’t want to give it to you.”

Chris sat up and snatched it. The flap was torn, revealing a folded piece of paper.

“I opened it, I’m sorry,” Cho muttered, “But the prick wrote it in fucking code or something, I tried google translate, but it didn’t make any sense. And anyway, you’re about to go off and be King of Janarvo—”

“Genovia.”

“Whatever. You have enough on your plate right now. I didn’t want this dicksnot hurting you anymore. I’d fuck him up myself if I didn’t think he’d put a hit out on me.”

“He’s a prince, John, not the mafia.”

“Yeah, well, what do I know about Denmark?” Cho retorted. “In some countries, it’s pretty much the same thing.”

Chris unfolded the note. The paper itself was thick and expensive, with a watermark on the lower corner of the Danish Royal Seal. On it was Zach’s familiar scrawl, written in Italian.

_’Imbrogliare se stessi per amore è l’inganno più terribile; è una perdita eterna per la quale non vi è alcuna riparazione, nel tempo o nell’eternità.'_

He could pick out the words he knew, still tripping over the conjugations, but something about those few words felt familiar, like a phrase he knew from somewhere. He got up to pull a tattered paperback off his shelf, a text from an old philosophy class that he’d gone to town on with a red pen and a highlighter, flipping through to a particularly abused chapter.

Finding it, he stared between the letter and the highlighted chapter, laughing as something warm shattered the weak remains of anger in his chest. “Oh my god, you asshole.”

“What?” Cho asked.

Tucking the letter into the book, Chris stood tugging at his hair for a second before he made a snap decision, throwing his backpack onto the bed and pulling open his drawers. “I have to go.”

“Huh?”

He spun on his best friend with a wild grin, stuffing jeans and underwear in the bag with his school stuff. “Fucking Kierkegaard!”

Cho held the book blankly, until Chris flipped it open to the page bookmarked by the letter and pointed out the passage.

“ _‘To cheat oneself out of love is the most terrible deception; it is an eternal loss for which there is no reparation, either in time or in eternity’_ ,” Cho read it out loud.

“What a fucking dick, right?” he said, continuing to chuck clothes, ducking into the bathroom to grab his toothbrush and box of contact lenses.

“I guess?” Cho said, “I dunno, I always thought it was kind of romantic, in an emo way.”

“I know, right?” Chris laughed, plucking a couple of nicer shirts from his closet and stuffing them in, reaching for the shoebox in the top of the closet for his passport. “God, he’s the worst. I fucking hate him.”

“Okay. You hate Zach?”

“No, Kierkegaard.”

“Right, so,” Cho asked, “Where are you going?”

“Denmark,” Chris zipped the bag shut, and stilled. “I’ve gotta go to Denmark.”


	9. Once Upon A Dream

This was without a doubt, the craziest thing Chris had done in his entire life. At least that he hadn’t managed to talk himself out of before it was too late. That happened around the time the plane reached 37,000 feet. He’d never been so impulsive; Chris was a thinker, he examined things from all sides before he decided what to do with them.

Maybe he had done a lot of thinking about Zach after all, he just hadn’t realized it. Maybe there was still a lot more to think about.

Now he was in a cab, glassy-eyed and sleepy as a taxi took him through the streets of Copenhagen, the cabbie chattering at him, pointing out landmarks. _Copenhagen_. How often had he dreamed of places like this, with it’s brightly-colored buildings, tall spires and canals, the seamless blend of ancient and modern that permeated these old European cities? Everything about it felt dreamlike. But that could just be the jetlag; his brain was convinced it was midnight, not late morning. He barely noticed the traffic jam or streets crowded with people, on foot and bicycles, until the cabbie leaned out the window to yell in Danish, honking the horn.

“What’s going on out there?” he asked.

“Ah, it’s opening of Parliament today,” the driver told him, sitting back in annoyance, “We’ll have to wait this out. It’s impossible to get through this area when the royals are out making a show.”

That woke Chris up, grabbing for his wallet, “You know what, you can just let me out here.”

He paid the man, shouldered his backpack and leaped out into the throngs of people, all swarming in the same general direction, many waving Danish flags. Weaving and excusing himself through the crowd, he reached a barrier lining a large street.

A police motorcade slowly made its way up, with officers on foot every twenty yards monitoring the barriers. Chris could hear drums and the unmistakable clop of many horses’ hooves on hard paving stone approaching, a familiar sound from when his dad used to take him to the Rose Parade in Pasadena to see all the floats and fancy old cars, marching bands and groups of cowboys with horses clad in shining silver and turquoise.

What made its way up this street was far removed from all that.

“Wow,” he murmured as two great black horses led the procession, each carrying massive silver drums on either side of their bodies, their riders setting the pace of the parade. Behind them, a small military marching band played what must have been the national anthem, as many people around broke into song. Another regiment in uniform followed, and a group of cavalry, riders in red, white and black uniform with long white plumes on their hats. 

Behind the latest group of marching guards in separate dark blue uniforms and bearskin hats with bayonets, there was a carriage drawn by four matched horses. It carried a pale blonde woman, cool and stoic as she waved to the crowd, the cheering and waving of flags intensifying. 

She had to be the Queen, but she was the carriage’s only occupant. Where was the King, and where was Zach?

The carriage rolled by, followed by a single dapple-grey horse. Its rider was also clothed in the red military jacket and hat with a silly horsehair plume like the rest of the cavalry, but set apart by a royal blue sash covered in medals. Chris’ heart gave a jolt.

“Zach!” he cried out as the horse trotted past, but the cheering of the crowd and the hard clop of hooves drowned out his voice. “Zach!”

The woman standing next to him suddenly gasped, touching his shoulder, “You are Chris Pine!” She turned to her younger friend, “ _Det er amerikansk Prins Chris Pine!_ ”

He felt himself flush as more and more people around began to peer at him and point with excitement, some whipping out their phones. His first instinct was to duck and run, but he’d come out here with no plan whatsoever, no idea how he thought he was going to see Zach in the first place. What did he expect, to be able to walk right up to a castle and knock on the front door? This might be the only chance he had, the closest he would get, and Zach’s horse was steadily trotting farther and farther away up the broad street. He cupped his hands around his mouth to yell, “Zach!”

“Prins Zachary! Prins Chris!” the women started to chant, and it quickly spread, until the whole crowd took it up. “Prins Zachary, Prins Chris!”

Zach slowed, sidestepping his horse out of the way of another following cavalry regiment, looking quizzically around at the chanting audience as they all pointed him back down the line of barriers. “Prins Chris! Prins Chris!”

He turned in his saddle, a searching look on his face. 

“Zach!” Chris called again, and their eyes finally met.

The smile that broke Zach’s face was radiant. He wheeled his horse around, galloping back along the barricade, against the traffic and skidding to a stop. The policewoman monitoring the barrier nearby snapped a smart salute before she stepped forward to take the reins. Easily swinging off, Zach stood across the barrier as the crowd parted back from Chris, phone cameras going off everywhere.

“Hey,” he said, looking dazed.

“Hey,” Chris returned, his heart banging anxiously around in his chest. Suddenly this all seemed like a really stupid idea. What was he going to say? How was he supposed to explain himself? He’d been a complete asshole to Zach, why would he think it was okay to just show up now out of the blue?

But Zach pulled the barrier apart and held out his gloved hand, just like he had at the ball, an invitation. The crowd roared with cheers as Chris breathlessly took it, letting Zach tug him from the fray and over to his horse. “Do you remember what I taught you about riding?”

Chris’ eyes flew wide, “Zach—”

“You’re a team,” Zach said, hastily boosting him up into the saddle of the sleek grey before he could even think.

With that, he waved down one of the last horsemen in the passing formation, it’s rider quickly dismounting as Zach basically commandeered the dark brown horse from him. He pulled up alongside as the cop hastily helped Chris get his sneakers into the stirrups properly, then turned them both with a wild grin, “Heels down!”

“Zach!” Chris bleated, but with a sharp _ha!_ , both horses sprang forward, galloping at top speed to the front of the procession, the screams of the crowd buzzing in his head with the sound of pounding hooves, his heavy backpack thumping against his side with the rhythm.

They were definitely not a team. Chris dug his fingers into the braided mane and held on for dear life, nearly paralyzed as the two horses kept pace side by side, passing the rest of the parade and all the way through a grand arching gate of wrought-iron and stone, pulling to a halt inside. Shakily, he slid to the ground and was whisked immediately aside, the quiet sudden and absolute as Zach pressed him through a doorway. Chris turned around to face him and froze.

The moment stretched, only the sounds of them both catching their breath from the harried ride and his heartbeat loud in his head. He felt stupid and misplaced, standing there in his jeans and Berkeley hoodie, with Zach in his smart military dress, encrusted with golden ropes and buttons and medals, tugging off the ridiculous plumed hat strapped under his chin and tossing it to the floor.

“Oh my god. You’re really here,” Zach breathed, his expression utterly disbelieving, “Why are you here?”

“Because,” Chris stammered, “I realized that… that you didn’t have any more control over it than I do and you probably had reasons and… I needed to tell you that I was sorry and I’m so stupid—”

But Zach dismissed all that with a quick headshake, closing the distance to cup Chris’ cheeks, shushing him, “Shh, whatever, it doesn’t matter now, it’s done. You’re here. You came here. For me?”

Chris nodded, “I had to see you.”

Zach kissed him hard. His backpack dropped to the floor as big hands pulled tight around his ribs, and Chris hardly cared that he was being crushed against all the things on Zach’s uniform, until a small cough came from the door.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir.”

Zach sighed against Chris’ mouth, eyes closed as he pressed their foreheads together, “Anton, can’t it wait?”

“I wish it would, sir, but it is the opening ceremony,” Anton answered, “You’re due for the declarations in less than three minutes.”

“Okay, okay,” Zach’s eyes popped open, awash with apology and longing. He kissed Chris once more before stepping reluctantly away, stooping to pick up the hat and dust it off. “Take him home. Get him settled in the Blue Room, see to it he has everything he needs.”

“Of course, sir,” Anton agreed, immediately pressing his hand to his ear and stepping away to speak into a throat mic, shooting Chris a smile and a wave.

“I’ll see you. As soon as I can get away, I’ll come find you,” Zach said to Chris, smiling wide as he tucked the hat under his arm, and touching his fingers to Chris’ cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

The quiet after they left was almost as overwhelming as the dramatic entrance, and he glanced around the room, recognizing some sort of tack area. The walls were full of racks for saddles, bridles and other equestrian wares, the room suffused with the warm, rich smells of leather and polish.

“Your Highness?”

He spun at the new voice, unable to kick that trespassing feeling. A smartly dressed man stood at the doorway.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, “It’s Chris. Just Chris.”

“Of course, sir,” the man inclined his head, coming forward, “My name is Soren. I’m to get you settled in. May I take your… luggage?”

“Oh, it’s heavy, I can…” Chris muttered, but the man simply picked up the backpack with a smile and a leading gesture.

“If you would follow me, sir.”

He was led out to the courtyard he’d barely seen on the way in, now bustling with many more horses and the uniformed men and women of the parade processional arriving through the archway, opposite what was clearly a massive baroque palace, built of granite with a green copper roof and doors, ornamental faces carved over each and every window.

“Is this where he lives?” he asked in awe.

“This is Christiansborg Palace,” Soren answered as they skirted the parade. “It was at one time the royal residence, though not since the fire of 1794. Currently, it is the working seat of the Danish government, including our Parliament and Supreme Court, as will as the Executive Offices of the King. We still make use of the reception rooms and other areas for official functions, and the equestrian facilities, of course. Just through here, if you please, sir.”

They arrived at a lot with several polished cars, the back door of which a driver opened. As they settled in and the driver pulled out into the now clearing streets, Soren sent him a reassuring smile. “Just a short trip, sir.”

Chris nodded, casting about for something in the awkward silence. “Soren? So are you named after…”

“It is a reasonably common name in Denmark,” the man answered politely. “But yes, likely it became so after the philosopher.”

Chris sent a smirk to his shoes.

“Sir?”

“Nothing, I just,” he shook his head, “I prefer Sartre, if we’re talking about Existentialism.”

Soren tilted his head genially. “As do I, sir.”

Chris grinned triumphantly, watching the city go by until the car pulled up to what seemed to be the back of another large building complex, through a guarded gate and down into a garage.

“This is Amelienborg, sir, the winter residence of the Royal Family,” Soren explained as they got out. He was ushered out of the garage and up a flight of stairs. “If you would follow me.”

Soren moved him through this room and that, up staircases and down wide echoing halls, talking all the while, “Each resident has put their own touches on the palaces, of course. Parts of this floor were being renovated when His Royal Highness arrived. Here we are, sir.”

The Blue Room was not actually blue, Chris found, but decorated mostly in dark woods and cool greys, but still bore some accents to its namesake. It was both grand yet cozy, similar to the apartments he’d had in the castle in Genovia, with richly upholstered furnishings and modern amenities. A beautifully carved mantle above the fireplace had a large wall mounted TV above it in the sitting area, a breakfast table by the windows, and of course, set off in an alcove lined with shelves, was a big curtain-draped bed.

He collapsed on the sofa, still taking in the surroundings, but the adrenaline of the wild morning was wearing off. His body felt heavy, and his mind too fuzzy to process it all.

“Are you hungry, sir?” Soren was asking from the next room where he’d taken Chris’ bag, “I can order breakfast brought up, if you’d like.”

“Mm-hmm,” he murmured, closing his eyes as he dropped his heavy head back on the plush cushions and sighed in exhaustion. He could hear Soren still talking, but it sounded almost in a tunnel, something about time and choices of food. He’d have to apologize and pay more attention in a minute, when he could pry his eyes back open…

 

+

 

_Chris, short for Christopher. What are you dreaming?_

_Would a kiss wake this Sleeping Beauty?_

Something brushed his forehead. He fought consciousness, wrinkling his nose and frowning.

There was a warm low chuckle, “Are you awake now? Hello, my sweet, sleepy prince.”

“Mmm,” Chris hummed his reluctant awareness.

“There you are,” the rich, familiar rumble tugged at him, and he opened his eyes, taking a deep breath in. Blinking away the crust, he peered up at Zach’s smiling face, feeling fingers brush back his hair. “Hi.”

“Hey. ‘Time is it?” He looked around and down at himself, noticing he’d been covered with a blanket. Someone had pulled off his shoes too.

“Oh, it’s about…” Zach shook his watch from the cuff of a shirt sleeve, “Three-thirty in the afternoon. Soren said you passed right out.”

“I guess I did.” He swung his feet down to sit up, getting his bearings. Zach retreated, off of his knees beside the couch to stand and push his hands into pockets. No longer in the military dress uniform, he now wore slacks and a pinstriped shirt, tie loosened at his neck and the top button popped.

A light knock sounded at the door, deviating Zach’s attention as a cart was rolled in and its bearer began to set the small table by the windows with two plates covered with cloches, along with a pitcher of water and a carafe of coffee.

Disoriented, Chris stood up, watching until the man had bowed at Zach’s thanks and left them alone.

“You must be hungry,” Zach offered, pulling out one of the chairs for him.

Chris swallowed and nodded. Zach’s face still held that open, achingly sincere expression it’d had for the last weeks before he’d vanished from school. Taking the seat, he watched Zach sit to his left, moving the other plate to that chair instead of across from him. He poured coffee into Chris’ cup and uncovered their plates, setting the cloches aside.

“Big surprise, right? Sandwiches,” Zach explained with a disarming smile, “ _Smørrebrød_ , we call it. Open-faced, I hope that’s okay.”

Chris nodded, reaching for the cream to doctor his coffee. Zach watched him so intently with eyes like caramel in the afternoon light as he took a deep, caffeinated drink and then took a fork to the sandwich—warm roast beef with pickled veggies on a dark rye bread. Once he was chewing a flavorful bite, Zach smiled brightly, finally taking his own fork and knife to his plate.

Now the awkwardness set in. Chris had made a snap decision, flew across a continent and an ocean, landing hours later and crashing a royal parade, and now here he was, having lunch in a palace with a bonafide prince. Zach was very much in his own element here, with his starched suits and crisp military dress and giving orders like it was second nature, yet now he was behaving as if Chris was the royalty and he was meant to serve.

So he ate, because food in his mouth meant he wan’t obligated to talk. Plus it was fantastic. The roast was tender and juicy, the bread hearty and dense, paired with tangy sweet pickled onions and cabbage with fresh tomato and sprouts, and pots of coarse mustard nearby. He cleaned his silver-rimmed plate.

“Do you want the rest of mine?” Zach offered, switching their plates. He had eaten only half of his own, sipping water and watching Chris eat with such a strange tenderness in his eyes. Chris had no idea what to think, and once there was no more food, he had no more excuses.

He downed the rest of the coffee and wiped his mouth, taking a deep breath. “Zach,” he began, “You must be so pissed—”

Zach stopped him, reaching over for his hand. “Please don’t think that.”

“No, I didn’t think about where you were coming from, I just got angry and I’m so sorry—”

Another knock interrupted and Anton stepped into the room, apologetically clearing his throat.

Zach sighed in resignation, squeezing his fingers as he stood, “Hold that thought, okay?”

“What?” Chris followed him to his feet.

Zach took his face in his hands and kissed him sweetly, humming an unhappy noise, “I’m so sorry, I have to go back to work. I only had enough time for a quick dinner. But we’re going to talk about this. Okay? I’m not mad. I promise you, I’m the opposite of mad.”

“Okay,” Chris frowned.

Zach pulled away reluctantly, rolling his eyes, “They have me in meetings begging for patronage renewals and approving napkin monograms. I’d rather be here with you.”

“What should I do?” he asked uncertainly.

“Anything you want,” Zach smiled, slipping into the suit jacket Anton held out for him and fixing his collar and tie, “There’s a gym, libraries, kitchens if you want more to eat. And you can ask Soren for anything you need, go anywhere you want, okay? My house is yours.” He was nearly to the door when he hurried back, taking Chris’ hand with a narrowing of his eyes, “Except the West Wing.”

“What’s in the West Wing?” he asked automatically.

Zach grinned wolfishly, backing off again with a last squeeze of his fingers, “It’s forbidden, of course. Don’t you know that?”

And then he was gone, the sound of his shoes echoing away in the hall.

“It’s forbidden,” Chris whispered slowly to himself with a self-deprecating laugh. He walked right into that one.

Left to his own devices, he wandered around the room, studying the paintings, touching vases and making note the television remote. Looking down through the windows from his vantage on the uppermost floor, he could see the large octagonal courtyard of the palace complex, flanked with matching buildings. There were people were milling around below, some clearly tourists despite the off-season, taking pictures of the guards in the bearskin hats and around a bronze statue of a man on a horse in the center of the courtyard, weathered green with patina. Another small knock came at the door once again, Soren bowing his head as he entered.

“I trust the food was acceptable, Your Highness?” he asked.

“Yeah, thanks,” he said, Soren coming to the window beside him as he pointed out at the courtyard, “There’s no fence.”

“No, sir, generally not. Before the royal family occupied Amalienborg, it was the residence of four prominent noble families,” Soren explained, indicating the building directly across with an open palm. “Now, the northwestern palace functions as a museum and visitor’s center for the public, while the southwestern palace accommodates the King’s guests. The King and Queen reside in the southeastern palace, and this one is the residence of the Crown Prince. There are, of course, modern security systems and the continual operation of the Guard for the private residences. You are quite safe here.”

Chris nodded at the explanation, less concerned with his safety as he was glad to be away from the paparazzi. It just seemed odd after Genovia, where the castle was set on many acres of tended land, fenced with thick briar hedges, wrought-iron and the substantial bend of the Genovian River which acted almost as a moat. This palace was planted right inside the bustling harbor of major port city.

“Are you feeling well-rested, sir?”

“Yeah,” Chris considered himself and his rumpled clothes still smelling of plane. “I could use a shower, though.”

“Of course,” the man replied, quickly showing him to the apartment’s ensuite and procuring a towel and robe, “After you have freshened up, I thought you might enjoy a tour? The Crown Prince has expressed his wish that you feel welcome and at ease in his home.”

With his hair still damp, Chris followed Soren around the palace, trying to remember the locations of rooms he was most interested in, listening as Soren gave him what seemed like a full history of Denmark and its long royal lineage. It was a much less complex building than the castle in Genovia—which had been added onto many times over hundreds of years. This was a simple rectangular building with a few floors, identical to the other four on the outside but differing inside. The decor in various rooms ranged from rococo to modern as each occupant made their own touches over time. It was interesting enough to keep him occupied, and he was grateful for the distraction.

Much later, once Soren had left him at his apartments again, Zach had still not resurfaced. Night had long since fallen outside, hours earlier than California in the winter months at this latitude. He stared out the windows, the courtyard lit but now empty of all but the Royal Guard, moving through an intricate change though no one was there to watch. Beyond, he could see the great dome of a church to the west; the Marble Chapel, or Marmorkirken, Soren had explained. The city glittered all around, wafts of fog occasionally blowing in off the waterfront.

The old building made weird noises in the quiet dark. He could hear sounds, almost like voices, footsteps, creaking. He stupidly found himself wondering if this palace had ever been considered haunted, probably like every other centuries-old building out there. More likely it was simply staff moving around, voices carrying through the ventilation.

It was chilly too, the large rooms drafty though there was modern heating and the gas fireplace flickering, but Chris was a Cali boy to his bones. He put on pajamas and scanned through the shelves that surrounded the bed, picking out an old book in French with a title he didn’t recognize. The bed was large and comfortable, freshly turned down and overrun with pillows, crowned with a set of dark blue velvet curtains. He tried to read, but his mind was far too busy spinning through the events of this crazy day to concentrate.

What the hell had he been thinking? Coming all the way to Denmark, all on the stupid realization that he had feelings? Not really even a realization, he’d just been stubbornly, adamantly in denial, blinded by an anger borne out of the obvious. And Zach was being polite and accommodating, but that didn’t necessarily mean Chris had any right to expect forgiveness, certainly not after the way he’d treated him for the last few weeks. He’d be well within his rights to just expect Chris to book a ticket and go back to real life in the morning, back to school—his last semester. How much of an idiot was he to leave right now, mere months from graduation?

There was a sudden, very loud thump and a shrill squeal like an old neglected hinge that definitely came from _inside his room_ , making him jump about a foot in the air, heart in his throat—before he realized part of the shelving nearby was _moving_. A huge black shadow emerged from the darkness, and loomed closer, into the dim lamplight haloing the bed.

“Zach?” Chris gasped, leaning back into his pillows with a hand on his pounding chest, “Jesus fuck, you scared the crap out of me! Where did you come from?”

“Well, these old palaces, you know,” he knocked on the bookcase. “They all have secret passageways.”

“For real?”

“Totally,” Zach drew out the word in true California form. He stood there for a moment, looking at Chris with a strange smile, and then took to a graceful knee at the foot of Chris’ bed. “I crave an audience with the future King of Genovia.”

Chris couldn’t help but snort at that. “Possible future King.”

“Possible,” Zach allowed, leaning up on his elbows over the coverlet. He was now wearing just an undershirt and soft pajama pants, biting his lip mischievously. “Your Possibleness, I can’t believe you’re here. I think my own eyes are deceiving me. I might even be crazy.”

Chris sighed, “It was probably stupid but–”

“I wonder if I might request something of immense value, Your Highness,” Zach interrupted, “Something worth more than all the crown jewels in every kingdom in all the world.”

Giggling, Chris rolled his eyes and played along, “And what would the Crown Prince of Denmark want from a possibly royal Genovian?”

Zach’s eyes glittered up at him, “Permission.”

“For what?” Chris smirked, “I’m pretty sure you’re in higher standing here.”

“Not for this,” Zach crawled slowly onto the bed, his long limbs graceful and felid as his eyes went ever darker, prowling up to whisper, “I crave permission, my liege, to kiss every bit of your possibly royal body.”

He swallowed, “Oh.”

“I desire permission, my sweet prince,” Zach purred as he pressed him back into the pillows, “To worship every inch of you, and convince myself you’re not a dream.”

“Fuck.”

“Mmm, I humbly request permission and the absolute privilege for that too.”

“Zach.”

“May I?”

Chris yanked him down and Zach willingly descended on him, his mouth hungry and hot, body heavy and solid. He moaned into the kiss, senses filled with the familiarity of Zach’s taste, his smell, the broadness of his hands as they cradled Chris’ head, moving down his shoulders. He lifted up to wrestle down the layers of blankets, the pair of them working to push and kick the silky sheets down.

“Oh my god, you’re here, you came to me,” Zach repeated in a whispered chant as he knelt over him again, his face nuzzling into Chris’ neck to kiss and suck, his hands smoothing down over his t-shirt, breath heavy and close. Chris arched up, wriggling his shirt off over his head to toss into the darkness. Above him, Zach paused, chest heaving as his eyes traced the same slow, reverent path of his hands on Chris’ chest and stomach, like he needed to touch to convince himself of his existence. His breath was shaky. “Tell me what you want? Anything.”

“You’re the real prince here,” Chris snickered and turned it back on him, “What do _you_ want?”

Zach hummed softly, his fingers coming up to stroke over his cheek, his mouth, giving a sad little headshake. “Don’t do that. Not now.”

“Do what?”

“Chris,” he murmured, sliding off to the side and searching down to clasp his hand, “This last month or so, when you were…”

“An asshole.”

Zach conceded with a smile, “Justifiably pissed at me. But you never let me explain myself,” he paused, bringing Chris’ knuckles up to kiss as he gathered his words. “The reason I never told you who I really was… At first it was a game. A stupid game to pretend none of this was real, and waiting for me to come back here.”

“No, I was wrong, though,” Chris tried, but Zach stopped him.

“You weren’t, not really,” Zach met his eyes apologetically, then dropped them. “I can’t pretend I never used my position to get whatever I wanted. My whole life has been based on it. On status, on the hierarchy, who you are, who you know. I grew up rubbing shoulders with people with more money and titles than sense. Your real world was our television show. There’s this bullshit idea that we’re above the lower classes, that our status sets us far apart in our privilege, that those people, regular people, are supposed to be there. I believed it too, no one ever told me otherwise.”

“And I bet you thought all of us peasants are just clamoring to be allowed in your superior company,” Chris grumbled. “That your attention was some kind of god-given gift.”

“Yes. But then I met you,” Zach smiled, “And proceeded to make an complete ass of myself.”

Chris let his head fall back on the pillows, “You were a dick.”

“I was a dick,” he grinned sheepishly, “I couldn’t understand why you didn’t just fold to my charms.”

“Like all the others did?”

“Yeah,” Zach’s eyes fell again with guilt. “But in my defense, I can’t hide who I am here. I’m… I’ve been known, if not for my family ties, then for all the stupid shit I got up to in the tabloids. And I wasn’t even first in line for a throne then. Things changed so fast.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that,” Chris snickered, thinking of his own apparent rise.

“I thought I could get away with it, that’s the stupid thing,” Zach played with Chris’ fingers, “I thought I could take advantage of people and behave badly forever, hook up with anyone and it would never matter in the long run.”

“Some of them probably hoped you’d be their sugar daddy, though,” Chris huffed, “It’s all the same in Hollywood, you know. America’s version of royalty. My dad always told me never to consider someone’s money or popularity more important than their deeds.”

“Your dad is a smart man. And he’s absolutely right,” Zach eyes softened in memory, “If you’d told me that a few months ago, before I met him and the rest of your family, I wouldn’t have understood.”

“I only know because he’s been in and out of it sometimes. I remember going to big premiere with him once,” Chris grinned at the memory, “ _Independence Day_.”

Zach blinked with a surprised smile, “He was in that?”

“Yeah, just for a minute. I remember the red carpet, jesus. So many people, beautiful famous people, cameras everywhere. And I was fifteen and zitty and wading around in this terrible baggy rented tux with all of these perfect people, and I realized real quick that I didn’t belong there. That they were all just indulging me because some D-list schmuck got permission to bring his kid. That was just the premiere, I wasn’t even allowed to go to the afterparty. It was nuts. But it drew me in, too. The surreality of it, the… the fairytale, the idea of being in the ‘It’ crowd.” Chris dropped his eyes at Zach’s knowing smile, “There are always a lot of people who hover on the edges, hoping to be someone’s arm candy and get a free ride to fame. Or at the very least, starfucking bragging rights.”

“Oh, I know the type,” Zach chuckled. “Actually, until you, that’s pretty much the only type I’ve ever known.”

His gut squirming uncomfortably at that, Chris covered with a joke. “Am I too deep for you?”

“Probably,” Zach said quietly, his own smile slipping away, brows crawling together. “That’s what I mean, Chris. Don’t make this a status thing between us, okay? I never thought of you as less. You’re the first person who made me realize it doesn’t matter. That we were always equals, from the beginning.”

“Regardless of our mutual Possibleness?”

Zach grinned, “How about in spite of it?”

Chris breathed a laugh. “Doesn’t stop you from doing whatever you want, though.”

Zach buried his face in Chris’ shoulder with a sigh. “I’ve spent my whole life having my every whim catered to.” When he lifted back up, his eyes were fathomless. “And you are the only person I’ve ever wanted to please in every possible way. So please, Christopher. What can I do for you?”

Chris gave right in to that. “Kiss me some more?”

“As you wish,” Zach answered with a rumble. His lips were soft and agile, his stubble raspy as his chin bumped Chris’ own. Hot breaths followed his mouth down his neck and to his collarbones. Fingertips found his nipples, rubbing and pinching until Chris squirmed, freeing one of his legs so Zach could drop between them. They both groaned to feel heat and hardness through soft pants, Chris’ hips pushing up and Zach’s pressing back in a stuttery assault of friction.

“God, I wanted you so badly,” Zach breathed as they moved against each other, “I want you so badly. Anything. Anything you want, I’ll give you.” He lifted up to reach his mouth, which Chris met enthusiastically.

He sucked at Zach's tongue for a minute before he pulled their faces apart, smiling playfully, “You remember what you were doing before everything went to hell in that club?” Zach’s dark eyes searched and then focused darkly. “Maybe you should finish that.”

“Fuck,” Zach exhaled, shifting to kiss his way down Chris’ chest, humming luxuriously as he tongued down beneath his belly button. He curled his fingers into the waist of his pajama pants before pausing to look back up. 

_Permission_ , Chris thought, his insides swooping at the very thought that Zach sought it from him, when he probably hadn’t before with anyone else. He nodded yes.

Zach pulled the pants down slowly, releasing each leg and setting them aside before pausing again at his briefs to look up, earnest and eager. Chris grinned and nodded again.

Lifting the briefs up over his cock, Zach’s breath shivered out as he worked them down and off, his eyes never leaving Chris’ skin. “Oh god, you’re so beautiful.”

Heat rose over Chris’ face and down his chest. He swallowed, fighting the urge to dismiss such words. Zach was the beautiful one, he couldn’t deny that to himself anymore. His features were even stronger in the dim lamplight, dark contrasts of his hair, his brows, the thick smudges of his lashes with his skin, the peek of hair beneath the low rise of the dark, fitted tank. “Take your shirt off,” he said, redirecting.

Zach’s eyes lifted away from his cock up to his face, plucking at the hem of his undershirt to pull it off, the dark hair swirling over his chest and down beneath the low cling of his pants, his body made lithe and pale in the low flickering light of a mostly darkened room.

He crawled back up and over to kiss Chris’ lips again, then descended, detouring to circle a nipple and to lick at the well of his hip, eyes darting back up as he settled down on his elbow between Chris’ legs. He bit his lip, fingertips tickling at a hipbone as Chris squirmed and twitched in anticipation.

“So, um,” Zach smiled shyly up at him, “I might not be very good at this.” Chris raised an eyebrow at him, and he elaborated guiltily, “I haven’t really had much practice.”

“You’re more of a receiving kind of guy,” Chris filled in the blanks.

“I was,” Zach murmured, eyes on Chris’ dick hungrily, before they flicked back up, mouth hovering over him, murmuring, “May I please?”

“Yes, just…”

Chris closed his eyes at the feeling of a hot tongue tracing up his length, trying to keep his hips still at the damp exhale of breath, the large, gentle hand cupping his balls. He took a deep breath himself, hands gripping hard at the edges of the pillows under his head.

It’s not like Chris had ever had a bad blowjob. He’d always figured having anyone go down on him was a pretty great deal, so Zach thinking he was mediocre didn’t matter very much. His mouth was hot and wet, his tongue eagerly exploring, hands warm and slightly clammy. If he couldn’t get much of Chris into his mouth, he made up for it with enthusiastic suction where it counted most, and if he failed to figure out a rhythm between hand and lips, he had Chris lit up anyway with the sounds he made, the vibration of his moans and hums and panting breath. When he left off to suck and slurp at his balls and pushed his thighs farther apart to work his tongue behind them, Chris’ hands left the pillow to tangle deep into the silky strands of dark hair between his thighs. He could feel Zach’s tongue, hot breath, and then a fingertip, slick with spit, breaching him for just a second before retreating with a growl.

“Zach, please, please…” he gasped encouragement, already teased beyond a stopping point.

“I don’t…” Zach rasped, pressing his face into Chris’ thigh for a moment before crawling back up to kiss him hard, brows tight in frustration as he pulled back, “Chris, I have nothing here, we shouldn't…”

Giving a headshake, Chris just shoved Zach’s own pants off his hips and pulled him down, wrapping a leg around him. Zach groaned into his neck as their dicks rubbed together, skin to skin between them, the remaining saliva creating spots of delicious slickness and others dried to a sticky drag. Chris spit at his palm before worming it down between their bellies. Zach made a desperate noise as he squeezed them both, wrapping his other arm up around Zach’s ribs to keep them tight together. Zach bucked into his hand, breath erratic against his own. Barely a minute passed before he felt all of Zach’s muscles go taut as he groaned and cursed and the wet spurts between them had Chris biting his own lip and shoving up through his fist, three, four quick times before he shot into the tight, close space with a gritted cry.

As they lay panting against each other, Chris dragged his own eyes open to the ceiling over Zach’s heaving shoulder, belatedly noticing the baroque cornice molding above the bed, with little cherubs carved in at the corners looking down on them. He found himself laughing breathlessly.

“Mmm, what’s so funny,” Zach murmured, nuzzling into his cheek.

“Those angels up there got a show.”

Zach’s eye opened in Chris’ periphery, searching upward while trying not to move. He grinned into Chris’ neck, taking a huge breath in and propping himself up on an elbow. His other hand lifted to stroke Chris’ cheek, dark eyes warm and sated. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Chris smiled.

“I still can’t believe you’re really here,” Zach laughed, “I can’t believe we just did that.”

“You’ll believe it in a minute when we’re stuck together with jizz,” Chris replied.

Giggling into Chris’ shoulder, Zach pressed a kiss there, then another, languid and warm and humming happily on his mouth. “Let me get something.”

Chris laughed at the face Zach made as he peeled their stomachs apart, and then harder as he nearly tripped over his own pants on the way out of bed, still hobbling him at the ankles before he kicked them off. He watched with considerable appreciation for the naked rear striding away into the dark, then relaxed back as the light in the bathroom came on. He looked around the room in the thrown light, and at the streaks glistening on his stomach with a grin. 

Man, he felt so good. What the hell had he been thinking, no sex all year? He dragged a couple fingers down through the mess as Zach came back with a thick terrycloth rag.

Sitting on the bed, he grabbed for Chris’ wrist, bringing those fingers up to suck it off and taking the warm rag to the rest, reverently cleaning him. His eyes roved over him in a way that was so familiar, and yet now different, without Chris’ vehement denial of wanting it.

Tossing the rag aside, Zach tugged the covers back up over them, his body warm and snuggly against Chris’ side.

“Are you okay?”

“Mmm,” Chris hummed in the affirmative.

Silence fell for a moment, Zach’s eyes still on him. “Are you really?” he asked. “I mean it, Chris. You brought me into your home when you didn’t even know me. If there’s anything I can do for you, just ask.”

Chris looked at him, his features somehow softened and warmer than ever. It made his chest feel full, too tight. His stomach rumbled, and he laughed at Zach’s lifted eyebrow at the noise.

“I’m hungry. And awake,” he laughed softly. “Too bad it’s the middle of the night.”

Zach crawled over him to the bedside phone, quickly ordering snacks brought up to Chris’ room, and looking down at him smugly.

“You didn’t have to get anybody out of bed though,” he griped.

“Christopher,” Zach nuzzled against his shoulder. “If there are any perks to being royal, it’s getting to have a snack delivered any fucking time you want.”

“And yet you don’t have lube or condoms in this joint?”

“Hey,” Zach admonished, smacking his chest with the back of a hand, “I haven’t exactly been getting any lately.” He snuggled back in for a kiss, “I have no idea if those are on the acquisitions lists, to be honest, but they will be now. I’ll tell Anton in the morning.”

“Jesus,” Chris laughed, “That poor kid. I really hope you pay him well.”

Zach pressed his nose into Chris’ chest, “Anton has been on more than a few supply runs for me, it’s nothing new to him.”

“But not recently.”

“No, not recently,” Zach confirmed, looking him in the eye, “Not for ages. In fact, I have it on good authority that little Anton got along with the Berkeley co-eds quite well. He’s probably pissed I made him come back.” 

“Scandalous!” Chris mock-gasped.

Zach grinned and kissed him again, as if to seal the idea that he’d not only held back his obvious ability to get some whenever he wanted, but that he did it for Chris in particular. It didn’t make sense, but then, in hindsight, neither did going without for a whole year on the assumption it made him concentrate any harder on his studies. That was clearly bullshit.

Zach pulled back reluctantly, “We should put on clothes before our snack gets here.”

A servant bearing a tray was at the door only minutes later. Chris hung back, half-hiding behind the bed curtains though the servant obviously knew this wasn’t Zach’s room. Zach sent him quickly away, bringing the tray to the bed and climbing back up to sit cross-legged in his pajama pants, uncovering a plate of fruit and cheese with sweet crackers and cookies. He noticed Chris’ blush with a smile, reaching over to shake his knee. “They’re going to know, Chris. And they’ll deal with it, or I’ll hire a new staff.”

He nodded, but still couldn’t help but feel weird. This was a fundamental difference between them, he supposed. Zach had grown up with people serving him, was comfortable with them knowing intimate details of his life. Even in Genovia, Chris hadn’t really gotten used to that. He liked his privacy to be truly private.

Zach put together a bite of cheese and cracker, holding it up to Chris’ mouth. With a snicker, Chris opened and took it, brushing at the crumbs that fell to the satin sheets. “I suppose you won’t push me out of bed?”

“Never,” Zach leaned over to kiss him, taking a slice of strawberry for himself. “We’ll sleep in my room.”

“Where's your room?” That was one place that wasn’t on Soren’s tour earlier.

“Across the hall,” Zach answered, “That’s why I put you in these apartments, obviously, with the secret passage between them.”

Shaking his head, Chris laughed, “I can’t believe that’s a real thing.”

“I can’t believe you’re a real thing,” Zach retorted, his eyes warm.

With another shake of his head, Chris took another cookie, and thinking about other unbelievable things, like how he’d ended up here. “So, I got your note.”

“I wondered if you did,” Zach looked at the tray between them. “And then I wondered if you just ripped it up and threw it away for being in the words of your literary adversary. I guess I would have deserved it.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “You have a habit of talking a lot and not saying a damn thing. Especially with Kierkegaard quotes.”

“I do,” Zach laughed, “It always worked for me before. But then I realized, I actually had to start at the bottom before you would see me as anything other than the spoiled brat that I was. That I am.”

“At least you admit it,” he giggled.

“With you cutting my ego down to size when I get too big for my britches,” Zach answered with a wider smile, taking his hand again and kissing the heel of his thumb. “Clever Pina.”

Chris shook his head at the reference. “Yeah well, you got me. With everything I thought you were, a bonafide prince wasn’t even on my list.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Zach implored, still holding his hand to his lips, “There were so many times, Chris. So many things we talked about that I could have told you weren’t like your fairytales. Or maybe in stupid ways they were, and I hated not being able to just…”

Chris watched his eyes cast about the room as he bit his lip on that pause, pulling his hand away. “Why didn’t you?”

“I was afraid,” Zach said sheepishly, pushing his fingers up though his own hair.

“Of me? Come on, man,” Chris replied, “I’m harmless.”

“I dunno, you pack a pretty mean punch,” Zach grinned at Chris wince and continued, “You obviously weren’t impressed by anything I was or anything I had. Not my designer clothes or my family money or anything. You certainly didn’t revere me for it. I’d never known that before, never had to rely on anything else for the attention I wanted,” he shrugged. “Besides, would you have believed me if I did tell you?”

Chris shook his head, “Probably not. Not before my Aunt… before Genovia. I would have thought you were trying to fuck with the dumb, fairytale-obsessed American, just like everyone else does.” He laughed at himself, “What are the odds? How is this even real life?”

“For some of us, it is,” Zach sobered, brushing off his hands and his gaze shifting away to the dark room as he flopped back on the pillows. “Too real.”

“What is it?” Chris prompted.

Taking a deep breath, Zach blew it out heavily before looking at him again. “There’s something I should tell you, something I should have told you from the beginning. There’s a reason I had to come back. I’d expected—well, I’d hoped to stay the whole year in Berkeley, but…” he hesitated, searching for words. “My Uncle, King Haraald, is sick.”

“Yeah, I think I read that somewhere,” Chris looked down guiltily. “It sucks, though. Cancer?”

“Yeah,” Zach confirmed, fingers tracing the patterns in the bedspread before elaborating, “He’s actually had it for years, but they never went public because he was responding just fine to the treatments. He’d go through periods with nothing coming up on the tests and then it would show up again, and they’d treat it again. So for a long time, the plan was that he’d abdicate when Eddie turned twenty-five, so he could just quietly fade into the background.”

Chris nodded, watching his face, “But that didn’t happen.”

“When Eddie died,” Zach mopped his face and sneered a little. “Everyone freaked about it, of course. It never went so far as officially removing me from succession, but…” he shook his head, looking back to Chris, “I’m not exactly popular with the Powers That Be, but I guess I’m the best option they’ve got. And anytime my Uncle brought up his retirement in Council, they’d push him to wait, to ease into it. Well, now his illness is much worse. He isn’t responding to treatments at all anymore. By the time I got called back here, he’d taken a bad turn.”

Chris frowned sympathetically. “So…”

Zach took another deep breath and let it out slowly, “So…”

That non-answer couldn’t mean anything good. Chris worried his lip. “When?”

“Tomorrow,” Zach murmured, looking at the clock, “Today now, actually. I should be sleeping, but I wouldn’t have been able to anyway.”

Chris’ heart cartwheeled, feelings of fear and sympathy and anxiety all trying to resolve. “Is there… um, will there be a ceremony, or anything?”

Zach nodded, “A small one. Private, in his apartments. My Uncle expected to be able to do it before Parliament, but he…” his voice wavered slightly, and he swallowed, leaving the sentence open.

Jesus. So this was it. This was real, and it was all happening at light speed. This had to be so hard. Zach had to have expected it since his cousin’s death, but he must have also expected more time to prepare, more time to come to terms, or he never would have left in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” Chris reached over to put a hand on his chest. Belatedly, he lamented, “Man, I picked a shitty time to show up.”

“No,” that brought Zach back to him, had him reaching to pull them close, cupping his cheek, “No, Chris. Jesus. I don’t know what I’d do without you here right now.”

Chris leaned into the warm palm, “I’m just in everyone’s way.”

“Never think that,” Zach moved the tray to get closer, looping an arm around to bring their foreheads together. “Everything is happening so fast and I feel like I’m flying apart and I can’t make any of this stop, but you… you ground me. You have no idea how much I need that. I want you here.”

Chris tipped in to kiss him, stunned to hear such things and realize they were absolutely genuine. It felt good to be needed, like an anchor, especially when Zach felt so untethered.

Zach sagged against him, turning to cover a yawn with the back of his hand. Whatever he’d said, the stress was taking its toll. Tomorrow would be a big deal.

“You probably should get some sleep,” Chris encouraged. “Or try to.”

“Mm,” he responded, heaving a breath and rubbing his clearly droopy eyes. “Okay. Let’s go to my room, though,” he said, brushing at the crumbs they’d left in the sheets. He tugged Chris up and over to the shelves.

“So, how do these secret passageways work?” Chris grinned curiously, “Is there really a special book you pull or something? Why not just walk across the hall?”

“For clandestine trysts, of course.” With a snicker, Zach moved a book on one side of a chest-high shelf, but the book itself wasn’t the secret. He set it out of the way, reaching into the space to show Chris an old wooden lever in the back of the shelving and barely noticeable in the dark, that unlocked the secret door. The shelf pulled open with another thump and squeal, and Zach took his hand, leading him down through a very dark, narrow hallway.

At the opposite end, he guided Chris’ hand to another lever that he couldn’t even see in the dark, releasing the door on the other side. He’d left the lights on in his own room, making Chris’ squint as they emerged.

Zach’s apartments were decorated with dark burgundy walls with black and grey velvets and sheer silks, which felt decadent without being too indulgent. He urged Chris away from the bookshelf where he hovered, feeling somewhat intrusive to be his inner sanctum.

“I told you you’re welcome, Chris. Including here. Especially here.”

“You should have somewhere to yourself, though. Away from everything. Everyone.”

“Not from you,” he whispered, leading Chris over to his bed and ensconcing them both under the covers before turning out the lights. His arms reached to pull them close, as if still convincing himself of Chris’ presence, “I don’t want to hide anything from you again.” 

He folded himself into the embrace, watching in the dark as Zach’s eyes drifted shut and his breathing evened out in a matter of minutes. The tension in his forehead and around his mouth eased, softening his face even further. 

Chris had spent the whole of his life feeling like a misfit in all breakdowns of the word; a nerdy outcast all throughout school, an imposter among the big names in Hollywood, an usurper and a fraud in Genovia. But looking at Zach’s sleeping face, this perfect prince—this flawed man—whom he had sorely misjudged and mistreated, had still forgiven and accepted and welcomed him with open arms. That was harder to believe than anything else. 

 

+

 

“Good morning, Your Royal… Highnesses.”

Chris woke abruptly at the voice and peeked out from the blankets to see Anton standing by the bed, a little pink in the face, but smiling down at him.

Zach let out a deep, resigned breath against the back of Chris’ neck, the arm draped around him tightening before it retreated as he rolled to his back. “Way too early, Anton.”

“Yes, well, you don’t become King everyday, sir.”

Anton held a robe out and open for Zach. He turned to Chris, kissing his forehead and murmuring, “You can stay, sleep more.”

“No, I’m up,” Chris whispered back, watching Zach reluctantly leave the bed and slip into the robe. Through the windows, he could see that the sun was barely beginning to rise, the light a cold and lemony line on the horizon.

“Good morning, Your Royal Highnesses,” Soren strode in, seemingly less surprised than Anton. He carried in a robe for Chris, helping him into it.

Breakfast carts followed, the table set and the pair of them drinking coffee and eating a few bites as Anton sped through a schedule that reminded Chris of his crazy days spent in Genovia.

“It’s not always like this,” Zach told him apologetically, and Chris nodded. Aunt Clarisse had said as much back in Genovia. The passing of the crown took a lot of organizing.

Zach’s official Coronation would take place in the evening, but was to be preceded by a full day’s worth of preparatory meetings, paperwork and ritual. Tradition dictated a great big to-do, even one that couldn’t be a very big to-do because of the King’s infirmary. It all sounded as terrifying as it probably was. Zach barely ate anything before going to shower and dress in a crisp business suit while Chris ate the remainders of the breakfast, wishing they had more time to talk and gauge what was going through Zach’s head.

Once he’d dropped a chaste kiss on Chris’ mouth, promising to meet for lunch before he and Anton left, Soren once again took the lead. “Well, sir. I thought you might enjoy seeing the palace gardens and a few sites in the city. The views of the Opera House across the water can be quite spectacular once the morning fog has cleared.”

Chris nodded agreement, surveying Soren carefully. “Did they tell you to keep me busy or something, being my tour guide? I mean, I’m not complaining, it’s nice, but isn’t there something else for you to do?”

“There is not, sir.” If Soren was offended, he was very good at not showing it. “I have been assigned to you in whatever capacity you require.”

“I get that, but what did you do before this?” he persisted. “What was your job before me?”

“Lately I have been filling in where needed,” the man told him, tucking his hands behind his back and eyes focusing elsewhere, “Prior to that, I was personal assistant to the former Crown Prince.”

That had Chris’ attention, sitting back. “You knew Eddie?”

“Yes, sir,” Soren said, “I served Prince Edvard for several years.”

“You would have been his PA, then, if it was him becoming King.”

“If he wished to keep me on in that capacity, yes, sir,” Soren gave a brief move of nonchalance, “There is little point in being envious of the position. I am a valet, I would serve a man without title as I would a King or a Prince.”

Chris bit his lip awkwardly. Even with professionalism, he guessed that could be a tender point. This man was probably there when the accident that killed a royal heir happened. “I’m sorry. For your loss. It must have been hard.”

“Thank you, sir,” Soren said, hesitating before continuing softly, “It was.”

“I…” he shook his head, “I’ve only heard what Zach told me. What was he like? Eddie.”

Soren turned to the windows, obviously thinking before he spoke. “Prince Edvard was exceptionally intelligent. He had studied both Political Science and Literature. He also had a deep affinity for sport: rugby, polo, fencing, car racing and mechanics. And women,” Soren turned his head with a long-suffering eyebrow, “He perhaps considered them as such, before he met a particular one. There were many who thought him arrogant, reckless and ill-suited to the monarchy. But he was the Crown Prince, and he would have taken his place proudly, when the time came.”

Chris noted the care not to speak badly of his former charge. “Sounds familiar.”

Soren looked back with a hint of a smile, “Perhaps it is a family trait.”

Shaking his head, Chris finished the coffee. “All right. Your plan sounds good to me. Gardens. Opera House. Sign me up for the tour.”

“Of course, sir.”

 

+

 

Zach managed to meet him again for a short and late lunch, though his mind was obviously and unsurprisingly elsewhere. Chris chattered at him instead, describing all the things Soren had showed him, the gardens, and the Opera House, the museum just across the courtyard and the Rundetaarn, an observatory built onto a church a short drive away. Zach’s eyes sparkled as he listened to him talk about climbing the gentle spiraling slope all the way to the top and then describe how they should install a slide the whole way down.

All too soon, it was time for Zach to get ready for the ceremony. However small and private, it was clear it would still be an extremely formal affair, as Anton prepared a very intricate uniform and guards carried in boxes like those that had held Chris’ own Order medal, probably holding various pieces of the Danish Crown Jewels that only came out of vaults for ceremonies such as this.

Zach had argued for Chris’ attendance to the ceremony, but had been summarily shot down by various people of considerable importance, including the Queen. As much as Zach insisted he wasn’t a burden, Chris could only wish him good luck and acquiesce to the delicate suggestions of Soren to leave, retreating across the hall to his own room.

His head was spinning with nervous energy, knowing Zach was on his own in this. He had a bag full of homework he really ought to keep up with, but knew his head would never be in it. On a whim, he dug out simple sweats and a t-shirt, and headed down to the gym to work off his nerves in a way that felt most familiar.

The gym had been a recent addition according to Soren, as the palace had not been occupied for decades before Eddie had moved in and begun renovating. It was fully equipped with free weights and other machines, even an endless swimming pool, but it was the treadmill Chris went with. Losing himself in the big screen TV that provided the illusion of scenery, he let his feet pound, keeping his pulse pushed just past a point where it was all he could concentrate on, leaving his thoughts behind. 

An hour later, he strode back up to the room, nodding warily at anyone he passed. Mopping his sweaty neck and shoulders, he left the towel draped there to protect the furniture as he dropped into a chair, still slowing his breath.

“I trust you enjoyed a good work-out, sir?” Soren said, bringing water and a plate of snacks.

“Yep,” he said, taking several gulps and a cube of cheese, “Good enough. Just need a minute.”

“Of course.”

Soren busied himself around the room, laying out his previously worn clothes to change back into, when a phone buzzed from his pocket. He promptly answered it, likely some order or another, or maybe information from Zach via Anton. Chris wondered how this whole minding-the-royals thing had all worked in the days before cellphones and walkies, or before phones in general.

“Yes, I understand. Right away, sir.” 

Soren hung up, took a deep breath and nodded to himself, taking the clothes he’d just arranged and turning on his heel to the wardrobe room again without a word.

“What’s up?” Chris sank into the chair a little farther.

“Sir, I believe you should freshen up,” Soren returned, now carrying one of his button-down shirts with a jacket and a tie to the changing screen. “Quickly.”

Chris followed him warily with his eyes, “What is it?”

“His Majesty King Haraald would like to meet you.”

“WHAT?” he squawked. “But they’re— He just—”

“Yes,” Soren said, his fingers twitching lint from the shirt, “Immediately, sir, please hurry.”

“I haven’t even showered!” Chris tripped over his own feet to get to the bathroom, ripping his sweaty shirt off over his head.

“Wash your face and hands, at the least, sir.”

“Why does he want to see me?” Chris stuck his head out, swiping hastily at his pits with a wet rag.

“A reason was not specified, sir.”

“Oh my god,” Chris muttered, scrubbing his face roughly at the sink. “Oh god.”

“Deep breaths,” Soren said, demonstrating as he handed him a fresh towel.

Five minutes later, they were not-running through the basement tunnels beneath the courtyard and up into the King's palace. Soren was going through protocols at high speed. “You will not speak unless you are spoken to. You will address him as Your Majesty upon greeting and Sir thereafter. As you are not a Danish citizen, you are not obligated to bow, but it is considered appropriate and courteous; not from the waist, just a nod is enough,” Soren paused in front of a set of doors, adjusting Chris’ tie before he looked up. “King Haraald is dying, sir. It won't be long. Just… try not to be upset when you see him.”

Chris frowned but nodded. Soren finished with him and then stood by his side until the double doors opened. A Bishop in full vestments departed the rooms, followed by more robed figures, the Prime Minister and a few members of the King’s Council with somber faces, carrying leather-bound scrolls no doubt permanently logging the historic change of leadership. Guards filed out carrying locked boxes. Aunt Clarisse had once told him, _The only time a King or Queen ever really wears their crown is when they are receiving it and when they are passing it on. The experience is brief, but profound._

Soren bowed his head before them, explaining from the corner of his mouth as they passed that the ceremony itself must be over. Chris hustled to follow him into the King’s chambers, seeing Anton off to the side of the bedroom door looking stiff and serious. His announcement was softer than typical, “His Royal Highness, Prince Christopher Whitelaw Devereaux Pine of Genovia.”

Smoothing his borrowed jacket and squaring his shoulders, Chris entered the King’s bedchamber, presented with a huge ornately-carved bed draped with silken brocades and velvets. It was flanked on both sides by IV hooks, oxygen tanks and other medical equipment, blinking rhythmically but silenced, and the lights in the room were dimmed to half for sensitive eyes. Zach stood to the right, dressed in full ceremonial regalia with his medals and sash, face solemn and hands caught together in front of him, his eyes warming at Chris’ appearance. The Queen moved nearby, taking a seat on the opposite edge of the bed, watching him hawkishly.

“Come closer, young man,” the King’s gnarled hand lifted from the bed, “Into the light where I can see you.”

“Your Majesty,” Chris took a few strides to the foot of the bed, bowing his head. The old man no longer looked like the strong, regal monarch he’d seen in all the portraits, busts and photographs throughout Soren’s tours. He was much more gaunt, propped up by several pillows, his white hair thin and in disarray, his cheeks sunken and skin spotted with the easy bruises and bloodspots of illness under the oxygen line to his nose, but the grey eyes that blinked up at him were bright and kind. Chris was strangely reminded of his dad back at home, a father who was healthy as an ox and whom Zach had met only weeks before, and he felt a pang of guilt.

“So,” the King said, “You are the one who has caused such a fuss with my nephew.”

Chris darted a glance at Zach and the Queen, heat crawling across his cheeks. “I… I offer my sincerest apologies for that, sir.”

The sound that came from the King was unexpected: a chuckle. “No matter. You boys are young. It does not last as long as you’d like. I’m told you are the latest in line for the Kingdom of Genovia.”

Chris took a deep breath. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you want it?” The old man’s once bushy, but now sparse brow arched.

The silence stretched. The question was posed so simply, it seemed like it should have an equally easy answer, not one Chris had been grappling with for more than a month. In the end he answered honestly. “I don’t know, sir.”

The King nodded against his pillow, his mouth turning up. “That is the correct answer, and in that, you already show merit. It takes a man who considers the needs of others over his own to be a good king. You are lucky to be given a choice.”

Chris’ eyes slid over to Zach again, whose gaze had dropped to the bedspread. However much he’d brooked authority and earned a scandalous reputation, he’d been raised for the unlikely event that he might one day assume the throne. That event had come to pass.

Frowning, Chris darted his tongue over his lips. He was speaking out of turn and knew it, but he doubted this kind old man would berate him. If anyone knew the answer to his dilemma, a King would. “How do you choose, sir?” he flicked a glance at the Queen, who looked mildly affronted. “How do you put what you want aside?”

“That depends upon whether you can accomplish both, for you and for others,” the old man said kindly, “Do you know of Kierkegaard, young man?”

Chris caught Zach’s tiny smile for a split second, “Yes, sir.”

“He famously wrote: _‘Do it or do not do it - you will regret both.’_ ”

“ _Either/Or: Fragment of a Life_ , sir.” Chris had read it. Grudgingly.

“Nonsense,” the King said, the coverlet moving as he shrugged. Zach’s eyes flicked back to his Uncle’s face in surprise.

“Sir?” Chris asked.

“It is at the end of a man’s life that he realizes how important his decisions were at the beginning. Whatever you decide, do not harbor regrets. Your choices define your life. Embrace them, and you will live fully.”

A nurse who had been unobtrusively observing took a step forward to speak quietly, “Your Majesty, you must rest now.”

“Zachary, come, come,” the old man turned his gnarled hand over on the bedspread, and Zach sat on the edge of the mattress, watching his Uncle attentively. “You remember when you came to visit us at Marselisborg in the summer? You were… oh, twelve years old, I suppose. You and Edvard raced your ponies around the gardens, pretending you were jockeys. You remember?”

“I remember, Uncle Harhar,” Zach murmured softly.

The King smiled at the informal name. “The two of you boys… always a competition, always a race to the finish. Edvard’s pony threw a shoe. Do you remember what you did?”

Zach looked down at the brocade, drawing up the memory. “I stopped the race. I grabbed his boot and pulled us up. He thought I meant to sabotage him, that I was playing dirty.”

“You had the advantage; you would’ve beaten him,” the King nodded, voice going somewhat hoarse. “Edvard was so angry with you, but you insisted the farrier be called. For a pony’s wellbeing, and not your own pride. That is who you are.”

His hands slowly moved together to work the royal signet off his little finger, but with a moue of pain he could not accomplish it. The Queen took her husband’s hand, gently working the ring over his swollen knuckle as he raised his pale eyes back to his nephew.

“You are the 58th King of Denmark. The decisions you make on behalf of our people will be good and just, as I know you to be in your heart. Whatever others may say, I am proud of you.” The old man took the ring and closed Zach’s fingers over it. “It is yours, my son.”

The nurse moved in to check the machines, opening a clamp on an IV solution, clearly meaning business regardless of the moment. Zach’s expression tightened as he leaned down to smooth back his Uncle’s wispy hair with obvious affection and kissed his brow. 

Haraald slowly turned his head on the pillow to face Chris again, eyelids drooping with the medications. “Do say hello to Clarisse for me. It has been so long since we danced.”

Chris bowed again, overwhelmed with what he’d just been privy to. “I will, sir.”

He followed Soren and Anton out of the room, Zach coming up behind. A shaky breath made him turn to see Zach fighting tears as he walked. “You okay?”

He gave no answer as he strode on, down the hall and out to a side balcony before the stairs descending to the lower levels. In the semi-private dark of the evening, he took a deep shuddering breath and wiped his fancy sleeve across his eyes, pressing the fist still clutching the signet to his mouth. 

“Zach?”

He shook his head on a tearful inhale, “I don’t deserve his confidence in me. I don’t know how to be what he is.”

“Hey,” Chris approached cautiously, taking his arms. Zach folded against his chest easily. “I doubt he did it perfectly from the beginning.”

“I’m so afraid.”

“I know you are,” Chris held him tightly, “I know.”

He stood there holding Zach and murmuring pointless comforts, until he heard Soren clear his throat in warning, he and Anton bowing out of the doorway as the shape of the Queen filled it.

“Zachary,” her voice cut cold even in the chilly air. He stiffened in Chris’ arms, lifting his head from his shoulder and slapping tears away with a swallow before he turned to face her, straightening his back like a rod.

“Rosalind,” he acknowledged stiffly.

Her eyes flicked back and forth between them, lips pressed in a tight line, whether in disapproval or simply the stress of the evening, Chris couldn’t tell. Then she sighed, looking briefly down to her own clutched hands and back, “Try to get some rest, Your Majesty. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

The acknowledgement of the new formal title by the Queen made it frighteningly real, though Chris thought he could hear a certain undertone of concern beneath her words. He wondered if Zach could hear it too. He bowed his own head as she left, letting Zach compose himself with a swallow and a sniff before leading them all back to his own residence.

 

+

 

Zach’s first days as King proved to be extremely busy. Each day they were roused early, with time enough to share coffee, a light breakfast, and a kiss goodbye. He usually didn’t see him again until evening, drawn, exhausted and moody, but that melted away as soon as he got to take off the King persona with the suit. They would eat dinner and then retreat to bed and each other.

The rest of the time, Chris was left to his own devices. Soren was a wealth of information if he wanted it, but he was also exceptionally good at disappearing whenever Chris simply wanted some time on his own, watching weird Danish television shows or spreading out his homework and trying to keep up remotely, or simply wandering the palace.

He had made himself comfortable in one of the parlor libraries on the third morning after Zach’s Coronation, when the abrupt echoing sound of the doors opening broke the silence.

“Her Majesty The Queen,” Soren quickly announced, even as she brushed passed him into the library.

“Soren, get out.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Soren retreated, quickly closing the doors behind him.

Chris scrambled to his feet, unable to think beyond his abject terror. _The Queen_. Why the hell was she here? Didn’t she stay in her own palace?

Queen Rosalind was nothing like Aunt Clarisse. Her round, dollish features held no warmth at all as she strode directly up to him, pale grey eyes sizing him up, making him wish he had put on something more proper than just his worn jeans and an old sweater. He hadn’t even shaved this morning, sure no one besides Zach and Soren would care to acknowledge his presence.

He eventually remembered himself and bowed, “Your Majesty.”

She said nothing, her face unreadable. Then, finally, her cold eyes dropped from his face to the old book he had left on the arm of the chair, picking it up.

“ _Candide_ , Voltaire,” she read the title, “ _Parlez-vous Français_?”

“ _Oui, Madame,_ ” Chris answered, “ _Un peu, pas bien._ ”

“ _Quelles autre langues parlez-vous_?”

“Italian. Pretty badly. You can ask Zach,” he swallowed, “Um. King Zachary.”

She lifted a thin blonde eyebrow, closing the book and carrying it as she strolled the room, looking at the shelves. “How do you find Denmark?”

“It’s fantastic,” he answered immediately. “There’s so much history here. So much art and literature and amazing people.”

“Hmm,” she allowed, turning back to him shrewdly, “More so than Genovia?”

He faltered, “It’s… I mean, they’re very different places.”

“Clarisse and I attended the school together,” she said offhand, “Before our marriages, of course.”

He smiled, “Were you friends?”

“Not as such.”

“Oh,” he gulped, finding a reading lamp to concentrate on.

“Why have you come here?” she asked, giving up pretense.

“I…” he cast about for his words, “To apologize. To maybe… I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’ve been told, ma’am. Zach and I… we—”

“Whatever relationship you believe you have is not my concern. Zachary is now King of this country. You have also become heir to a throne, through… unorthodox means. I question whether you have any understanding of what that involves.”

Chris hesitated, trying not to shift on his feet. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking me, ma’am.”

“This is not a fairytale.”

He licked his lips and made a point not to grit his teeth, “I am aware of that.”

She sat down in the wingback chair opposite the one he’d vacated, “Being royal is not like being rich or famous. It is something you are born to.”

“No, it’s not,” Chris snapped, and then cringed to remember exactly who he was talking to—another Queen who looked at him as if he’d just doused her with ice water. He bowed his head and lifted a hand in a vaguely apologetic gesture, “My apologies, Your Majesty. But with all due respect, I disagree.”

She crossed her arms, “Do you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I grew up in Los Angeles. Hollywood. That’s as close to royalty as we get out there. And it is fame and riches and some other tier of society, I guess, but people can be born into it or they can work their way up from nothing. They can arrive at the same place, the same money, the same power of public influence. Hell, some of them even run for office too, and win.”

“Which is obviously counter to how monarchy works,” she retorted, “You have not proven your point.”

“My point is, if you go back far enough in history, anybody’s pedigree will stop being royal, or noble, or anything. You’re just like anyone else. We’re all just people.”

“Denmark is the oldest continuous monarchy in the world.”

“It isn’t. Japan has that honor,” he corrected. He had a feeling she was well aware and had just been trying to intimidate him. “But I understand, it’s traditional, it’s important, and it obviously works for you. But at the very beginning, it was just someone who stepped up because they saw a need, and they had the leadership skills, and their people listened to them. That’s what made kings and kingdoms. Most people now are so much more concerned with what you’re wearing than your public and foreign policy, so I don't think it’s that much different. There are always going to be people who get what’s really important and people who don’t.”

She stared at him for a long time. After the first minute of stiffly standing under her scrutiny, he shrugged and sat back down himself, less able to fidget that way. Maybe it was a faux pas, maybe he was being disrespectful, but he didn’t want to come off as nervous as he felt. Whether it was brazenness or stupidity, at least she didn’t have him dragged off for his stupid mouth.

“You appear to be a young man with ambitions,” she finally said, “Passions of your own, as well as important choices to make elsewhere, and the privilege of freedom to do so. I don’t understand what you believe the future holds for you here. I don’t understand what you think Zachary can do for you. He has a great deal of growing up to do himself, and he must do so quickly.”

“Would you believe he already has?” Chris asked with a headshake and a chuckle, “When I met him, I couldn’t stand him. I know he can be arrogant and selfish and he’s done a lot of stupid sh—stuff, but… but now I know he can also be thoughtful and kind and he worries _so much_ about doing the right thing, now that it’s time for that. He worries about being the kind of King his Uncle is. He’s so aware of it that he wakes up at night, scared he won’t live up.” That was maybe a little personal to share, but there it was. “Maybe he ran away from it before, but he’s here now. He could have abdicated too, right? And he didn’t.”

“Precisely,” she said, “He does not have time for some childish school romance.”

“Is that what you think this is?” he snapped back, “You really think I don’t have enough on my own plate, I thought I’d just put up with his shit on top of it all?”

She fixed frosty eyes on his, expression tight.

He shook his head, mopping a hand down his face. “I don’t… I have no idea what I’m doing here, to be honest with you. You’re right. I have a lot of things to think about. About my own future. None of it is easy. Zach is definitely not making it any easier,” he smirked, and looked back at her. “But none of this is about taking the easy way out. Didn’t you…? I mean maybe you didn’t, but if you had a choice to be with someone you wanted, wouldn’t you take that option?”

She placed her hands on the armrests of the chair, surveying him, before her posture changed as she exhaled quietly, “You are… not as I expected.”

Chris blinked. If the Queen had pretty much figured he was some kind of gold digger, he could only hope he’d changed her mind.

“I expect many things,” she continued, standing up again. “I expect traditions to be upheld and quality and consistency in those traditions. I don’t like change. Yet change seems to be upon us, and… ” she seemed suddenly vulnerable, putting her fingers to her mouth and looking away. “And there is nothing I can do about it and I am finding it difficult to accept,” she said in a rush.

He stood as well, pocketing his hands to still them, casting about. “Then maybe… you’re the thing that is consistent. People need that, right? Something familiar when change is inevitable. Something to keep them steady.”

She stared at him another unnervingly long moment and then dropped her eyes, “I think you may go now.”

“Your Majesty,” he bowed his head and headed for the door. 

“Young man,” she called him back, holding out the novel. He came back to take it and she met his eyes again. “Tomorrow, Zachary is to attend his first weekly Council meeting as King. I have observed these meetings whenever possible, in order to be well-versed in the day’s issues. You will sit with me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He left, letting out an enormous breath as Soren met him outside the doors. 

“That was well done, sir,” the man said as they walked.

“Really?” Chris laughed breathlessly, “I dunno about that. I think I barely came out of there with my neck intact.”

“When the Queen challenges you to a game of chess, sir, a draw is a far better an outcome than most.”

 

+

 

Chris did not sit with the Queen for Zach’s first Council meeting the following afternoon. It was cancelled.

With a chilly fog hanging over the city, the Prime Minister stepped somberly up to the balcony at Christiansborg Palace with national news cameras rolling to read a simple, short proclamation.

“ _Kongen leve, kongen er død._ ”


	10. Part Of Your World

The silence of the palace echoed, broken only by minced steps of anyone who dared to move around. The majority of the staff had been sent home, though many stayed on a voluntary basis anyway to tend to the Royal Family. The palace courtyard had been fenced off, the museums shuttered, all offices of government closed. The city outside the walls moved on in vigil under a coldly overcast sky. A wall of flowers, flags, candles and condolences grew six feet deep against the gatehouse and fences.

There had, of course, been protocol in place for the death of a monarch since time immaterial. A far more somber and formal parade than the one Chris had witnessed days before escorted a flag-draped carriage drawn by four black horses through the streets to the Marble Church. The King’s casket would lay in state, where mourners would file through by the thousands. The funeral would take place in three days’ time. Danish flags flew high all over the country in solidarity and respect; the culture did not lower flags to half-mast; after all, a living Sovereign was still installed on the throne, and had always been, for more than twelve consecutive centuries.

Chris spent the first day in Zach’s apartments, watching the new stations for any possible glimpse of Zach or the Queen, and feeling distinctly like the uninvited guest he was. It occurred to him that if he took his own kingship, there would come a day when he would also go through this. Aunt Clarisse had told him herself, she would not live forever.

He thought a lot about the old King’s advice to him. Haraald had headed his country for more than three decades, helping to make his nation one of the happiest in the world for many years. He was a King beloved by his subjects and well respected by his contemporaries. Could Zach truly step into those shoes, and come to fill them like Chris said he would? Could Chris do the same for Genovia after five hundred years of Renaldis making it prosperous and content? 

Probably not. He was a twenty-two-year-old college student, for fuck’s sake, he could barely keep on top of doing his own laundry. 

He thought about sneaking away, wondering if he’d even be missed. Unlikely, since someone had still come to change the bed linens and ask what he would like for lunch, delivering ’whatever you have on hand, please don’t make anything special for me’, which turned out to be a delicious warm open-faced duck sandwich with a hearty vegetable soup. They didn’t skimp on the excellent food, even with the entire palace in mourning.

He had no idea where he belonged anymore. Here, in Denmark? Outside of Zach’s opinion, he wasn’t sure. In Genovia, then? A dyed-in-the-wool city boy ruling a nation of farmers? He probably didn’t even belong in California, a boy ever reaching for faraway magical worlds that didn’t really exist. But LA was at least familiar, it was all he knew. The desire to run home to the safety of his parents’ arms was strong.

His mom had been furious when he’d finally called her up after repeatedly ignoring her messages and texting that he was fine after the media disaster—some client of hers obsessively followed the royal gossip, apparently. She wanted to know why he was in Denmark with Zach, who was a King by the way, when he should be at school, especially given his other possible obligations. His dad was only slightly more restrained, telling him to be careful and think everything through. Both of them had always been excellent at making sure he knew they were disappointed without actually saying the word outright. He didn’t dare call Aunt Clarisse, in case it might be a family trait.

He opened his laptop to book tickets home numerous times, but one look out the windows, he was unsure of how to even get out of the palace grounds in secret with a few looks at the massive crowds and media vans parked and unmoving outside the temporary fences.

But when Zach came back in the evening, pale and silent with his tie loose at his neck, he crawled up on the bed where Chris sat reading and wrapped tightly around him, burying his face against his chest with a broken exhale. 

He couldn’t leave Zach now. Not like this.

 

+

 

Dignitaries began arriving; ambassadors, prime ministers, other diplomats and members of royal families to which Denmark had close ties taking up rooms in the guest palace across the courtyard, some at Christiansborg or their respective embassies. Many more filled the area hotels. Media outlets outside diligently reported each arrival of those paying respects, somber black suits and dresses, faces veiled under the cover of hats and umbrellas in the stormy, perpetually grey weather. It was as if the land itself mourned.

One guest arrived the afternoon before the funeral and took Chris entirely by surprise. He was making his way back to Zach’s room from his favored library, hoping to see him shortly for dinner when he was accosted in the hall.

“Oh Christopher, darling!” She caught him in an embrace with a kiss to each cheek.

“Aunt Clarisse!” he gawked. “What are you—”

“Oh, my dear,” she swiped her lipstick from his cheek sadly. “I rearranged my schedule just as soon as I heard the terrible news. Haraald and I knew one another when we were young, you know.”

“Huh,” he acknowledged.

“And of course, I’d seen the news reports that you were here as well,” she eyeballed him with mock accusation.

“Ah, yeah,” he dropped his eyes, flushing, “I’m sorry, maybe I should’ve—”

“Oh, don’t fret yourself, I understand, you needn’t tell me everything,” she patted his cheek, leaned in to whisper, “It was all rather romantic, wasn’t it?” 

She straightened up as he blushed at the marble floors, her eyes cutting over his shoulder. “And here is the man himself. Your Majesty,” she greeted as Zach strode up the hall toward them, though she reached to grasp both of his hands.

Zach took them briefly. “Clarisse, how good of you to come.”

“How are you faring, young man?” she asked with her usual compassion. “I do wish we were meeting again in happier circumstances.”

“I am… I am coping,” Zach answered, looking warmly to Chris, “Better for having excellent company.”

“Good, good,” she beamed at Chris, “I’m glad to see that you’ve settled your differences.”

“I am too.”

“Well, they’ve put me in rooms in your palace, but not to worry, I’ll stay out of your way,” she said, “Though, I do hope we might share dinner?”

“Of course,” Zach answered tightly, turning to take their leave.

“Oh, Christopher,” she called them back. “I took the liberty of having some of your wardrobe brought over. I believe you may have need.”

“Ahaha, great!” Chris forced a laugh, “Did, uh… did Karl approve?”

“Oh, you know Karl,” she replied. “He saw to the delivery personally.”

“What does that mean?” Zach asked him in an undertone as they left.

Chris smirked, “It means my stylist came with my wardrobe.”

 

Dinner was served in one of the parlors on Aunt Clarisse’s insistence, though it didn’t stop Chris from feeling like it was significantly more formal than usual. Zach sat stiffly to his left at the head of the table, picking at his food. He hadn’t been eating much lately at all, and Chris was beginning to worry. Aunt Clarisse carried most of the conversation.

“I hope you’re keeping up with your schoolwork, Christopher,” she said, arching a sly brow at him across the table. 

Chris flushed again guiltily, “As much of it as I can do from here. I’m sure I’ll have some catching up to do when I go back.”

But Aunt Clarisse winked, letting him know she wasn’t too upset with him. She turned to Zach, who stared fixedly down at his plate, “How is your mother, dear? She hosts such a wonderful charity gala for orphans in Nice every year.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s keeping busy,” he said snidely, “Her secretary sent me a lovely ‘Congratulations on your kingdom, sorry I can’t make it’ card in the mail.”

Aunt Clarisse frowned at his sarcasm, but said nothing about it. “How is Rosalind? I have yet to gain an audience with the Queen, I’m afraid.”

“Razz is Razz, I suppose,” Zach muttered, “We don’t particularly see each other.”

“Rosalind and I attended finishing school together in Switzerland when we were girls,” Clarisse told them. “I was a few years older, but we ran in the same social circles, you know, attended the same functions quite often. In fact, the pair of us had our eyes on Haraald, back when he was a young prince in search of a wife.”

Chris almost choked on his soup, “Really?”

“Oh yes,” she smiled wryly, “He was quite charming, very handsome. And a wonderful dancer. I believe Rosalind still harbors some animosity about the matter, though in the end it was she who won his hand in marriage, and I was betrothed to my Rupert."

“You never put that in the story,” Chris accused, assimilating this new information with the fairytale in his head. “That was why you didn’t want to go to Genovia. You wanted to be here?”

“I was a young princess in a time when women in my position were given very little choice, Christopher. I was rebellious and angry,” Aunt Clarisse’s eyes crinkled at him thoughtfully as she sighed, “I suppose I left it out because I thought a young boy wouldn’t appreciate such a tragic romance.”

“I prefer happy endings,” Zach said, looking over at Chris with a rare smile.

Chris bit his lip, though he looked at his Aunt a little sadly. He had to admit, he preferred them too.

 

+

 

The King’s funeral was a solemn and formal affair, closed to the public but televised and broadcast on large screens to the people gathered outside and across several countries. Chris sat with Aunt Clarisse several pews from the front and next to another royal family from somewhere, all of them in black except for three young princesses all under the age of ten, in pristine white dresses. The bishop led a somber funerary mass, then various people stood up to speak. Much of it was in Danish, so Chris could only follow on the screens erected with translations in multiple tongues.

Instead he sat observing during the three hour procession, watching the back of Zach’s head in the King’s pew at the front, stiff beside Queen Rosalind. The young girls beside Chris shifted and kicked and fussed, their nanny trying her very best to keep them quiet through it all. At one point he spent a short time folding a tissue paper insert from the program into a crane to occupy the youngest beside him, who couldn’t have been more than five.

A wake followed, with a catered luncheon in several ornate parlors at Christiansborg Palace. As King, Zach had to make rounds and be sure to speak with everyone present. Several times, their eyes met across shoulders, but the few times Chris tried to stick by his side were met with looks of anything from cool politeness to blatant disapproval, forcing him to keep his distance.

Aunt Clarisse found him a little later being a wallflower by the tea sandwiches wondering if he could bring a plate of something and make Zach eat it, feeling incredibly useless and out of place.

“Are you all right, dear?” she asked him in low tones.

He snorted in annoyance, “Aside from everyone here treating me like I’m at the wrong wake, sure, I’m fine.” 

“Give it time. Tempers are delicate. This is a stressful event for everyone.”

“Yeah, and what about him?” he nodded towards Zach across the room, looking almost grey as he spoke to some ambassador. Chris shook his head, “Aunt Clarisse, can’t they cut him a break? He barely eats and he’s exhausted. It’s his first week and he’s having to deal with all this, it’s way too much.”

“I agree,” she said seriously. “It was the same for Phillippe when my husband passed, the poor dear. He just ran himself ragged trying to fill two sets of shoes. But he will have some time after all this fuss. Planning the Coronation Ball can be handled by the rest of us. Not to worry.”

But Chris was worried. “Isn’t there anything I can do?” he asked, “Am I even allowed to say anything to anyone? I’m not even supposed to be here!”

She straightened his collar and tie. “Christopher, you are a Prince in your own right, do not forget that,” she told him sternly. Her expression softened as she brushed at his hair, “And if your King will not take care of himself, it is the job of a consort to demand it of him.”

He balked at her calling him such a thing, feeling his face flood. “I… I know I told you that—”

“Oh hush now. I’m not blind, I can see how you feel about him. I knew as much weeks ago.” She took his shoulder firmly, “Now go on. Take him home.”

Zach was not in the same place when Chris looked back, nor in the next drawing room over. It took several inquiries and spotting Anton lurking by a doorway before he found him, alone in one of the gilded portrait halls.

Chris came to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the painting in front of them. It was of King Haraald in his prime, perhaps in his early forties, recently crowned and in military blue, smartly posed beside a fireplace. In contrast, Zach looked drawn, dark circles under his eyes, his face thin and pale. He leaned into Chris’ arm minutely.

“It’s just me now,” he murmured, still looking up at his Uncle’s face rendered in finely layered oils. “I spent all this time resenting everything he tried to teach me… and now I can’t ask him anything. I’m all alone.”

“No, you’re not,” Chris told him. “You’re not alone. Everybody back in there would help you.”

“They wouldn’t, Chris. You don’t know them,” Zach contested. “Most of my Uncle’s relatives hate me. Half of them fought to have me removed from succession. I wouldn’t be surprised if they keep it up. Razz’s family thinks this is all a big joke, that someone more appropriate will magically appear.” He gave a humorless laugh, pressing his finger and thumb into tired eyes, “Even my own mother can’t even be bothered to show up—”

“Fine, don’t ask them for help,” Chris backtracked. “There are other people who want to see you succeed.”

“Who?”

“Me,” Chris told him, “My Aunt. My parents, probably. They know who you are now, and they like you, even if they were a little… a little pissed about things.”

“Jesus,” Zach pulled his hand down his face, wringing his fingers. “Your dad’s going to kill me. Your mom…”

“Zach,” Chris stopped him, moving to take him by the arms. “Don’t worry about this shit right now. You need to rest.”

“I’ll rest after this, tomorrow,” he sighed, his head falling to the shoulder of Chris’ suit, betraying his exhaustion. “I have to go back in there, be a gracious host. A good King. I have to show them I’m trying my best.”

Chris spotted Anton lingering in the doorway, and sent him a nod, watching as the kid pressed his ear-mic. “You can be a good King later. Right now, you’re just a guy who needs to sleep. Come with me, we’re going home.”

Anton had dutifully called up a car, and they’d had Zach tucked in and back to Amalienborg with little protest. Chris ushered him up to his apartments, got them both out of their suits and into pajamas, and made Zach eat a thick slice of bread with butter and jam sent up from the kitchen. He poured him a brandy, watching him drink it.

“Razz is going to have a fit,” Zach muttered, “That I left everyone. Unprofessional.”

“She left hours ago,” Chris told him offhand. He didn’t know if it was strictly true, but since he had barely seen her past the beginning of the wake, he had assumed she’d ducked out as well. She had every right to seek solitude, her husband had died. 

Zach shook his head slowly, downing the rest of the snifter with glazed eyes, “I have to work on my speech. I have to—”

“No,” Chris took the glass away, pulling him up and into his arms. “The only thing you have to do right now is rest, okay? Come here.”

He tugged him to the bed, pushing him down and over onto his stomach before climbing up to straddle his legs. Scrubbing his palms together to warm them, he pressed them firmly into Zach’s lower back, stroking up the tight, twitching muscles. Zach grumbled into the duvet, trying to push up.

“Shh,” Chris hushed him, pushing him back down. “Let me take care of you.”

“You don’t have to be here, you shouldn’t have to,” Zach huffed into the pillow, “Why would you stay?”

Chris stilled. “What?”

“There’s no forgiveness for what I dragged you into. For this, for everything I am. Everything I’m never going to be for you.”

“Zach, what the hell is going through your head?” Chris stopped and let his body settle over Zach’s, arms gathering him tight, “Of course I forgive you. Of course I do, for the lying, anyway, but the rest? I don’t need you to be anything for me but yourself.”

Zach let out a small disbelieving sob, “Even if I’m a spoiled brat who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing?”

“Especially for that,” he answered, kissing Zach’s temple and cheekbone. “You don’t have to be perfect. No one is perfect, even kings. You know who told me that?”

“Who?”

“A queen,” he said, “A good one, because she learned how to be one through fucking up and learning from mistakes, just like you.”

“Your aunt?”

“Yeah, my aunt. Who told me to take care of you,” Chris confirmed, “Now relax, okay?”

He sat back up and continued his back rub, slowly tracing up and down the lines of Zach’s back, trying to remember the rudimentary muscle groups he’d learned in some drawing class he’d taken and done badly in way back in freshman year. Not long after, he heard soft snoring, Zach’s sprawled body finally melting deep into the feather bed. With a breath of relief, he crawled up along his side, pulling up a blanket and watching Zach’s face as he slept in the cold afternoon light.

 

+

 

Now that the funeral was over, and the government offices would remain closed down for a period of mourning, Zach finally had little to do. They had long days to spend in each other’s company. A Coronation Ball was being planned, and Chris had homework while Zach had a speech to fine-tune, but Chris had another agenda of his own: to pull Zach up out of the deep wallow of self-doubt and insecurity he was drowning himself in.

It included making Zach eat three square meals a day; breakfasts with eggs and waffles and sausage, lunches of sandwiches and hearty soups, dinners of roasts and fish and vegetables and pasta. Even Aunt Clarisse made a point of nudging Zach to finish his plates, whenever they took a meal together.

Chris often turned them to his favorite topic in the evenings, curled together on the plush sofas and reading aloud from the palace’s copies of fairytale collections that he’d of course discovered, pushing Zach to analyze with him.

“ _She trembled for fear, for she saw that it was King Grisly Beard, one of the suitors she had once scorned, who was making sport of her as she had of him._ ” Chris read from one such fairytale, in which a snotty princess who mocked every suitor she’d received is forced by her father to marry a beggar, in order to teach her some compassion. She had to sell wares at a market stall and work as a kitchen maid in the castle of a neighboring King. At his Coronation Ball, she was further humiliated by King Grisly Beard as he asked her, a lowly and dirty maid, to dance with him in front of all the aristocracy.

“ _Then everybody laughed and jeered at her; and she was so abashed, that she wished herself a thousand feet deep in the earth. She sprang to the door to run away; but on the steps King Grisly Beard overtook her, and brought her back and said, ’Fear me not! I am the beggar who has lived with you in the hut. I brought you there because I truly loved you. I am also the soldier that overset your stall in the market. I have done all this only to cure you of your silly pride, and to show you the folly of your ill-treatment of me. Now all is over: you have learnt wisdom, and it is time to hold our marriage feast.’_

“ _Then the chamberlains came and brought her the most beautiful robes; and her father and his whole court were there already, and welcomed her home on her marriage,_ ” Chris finished, looking down at his lap. “So? What do you think of that one?”

Zach had his head pillowed on Chris' thighs. “It needs some substantial edits, for one thing.”

“Besides that,” Chris smirked, “I don’t think the Brothers’ Grimm had editors.”

“Okay, um,” Zach pretended to think, though his expression said he already had an opinion. “Well, it’s kind of overkill. I get that it was a teachable moment, but having a whole ballroom of people laugh at her like that? Rude.”

“Gee, I wonder what that’s like,” Chris told him sardonically, thinking of his own Ball.

“They didn’t laugh at you. If anything, they got to see me put in my place, and I’m sure some of them probably enjoyed it,” Zach told him. “I think it’s obvious here that I’m the Prideful Princess, and you’re the good King Grisly Beard.”

“Why do you say that?” Chris grinned.

“Well, clearly, you’ve had me washing dishes and shoveling shit. And me being a snobby spoiled Princess, I cried like a little bitch and my soft hands bled—”

“They did not,” Chris rolled his eyes, laughing. “You actually surprised me, doing all that stuff. You never complained.”

“Only to impress you,” Zach gazed up at him softly, playing with Chris’ hand where it rested on his chest, one finger still holding the page of the book. Then his eyes dropped down, “Let’s be honest, you’ll be the better King between the pair of us, anyway.”

“I don’t know about that,” Chris countered, shaking his head. “You have more firsthand experience with this governing stuff than I do.”

“And you know more about taking the moral high ground, being fair and compromising. Your stories taught you all of that.”

“Fairytales don’t teach you to be a leader,” Chris said, “I’m a total city slicker and that whole place is like this idyllic utopia straight out of a Disney movie. I don’t know that I could do what my Aunt does. I don’t know that I could always be so good at listening, sit for hours in the Throne Room, trying to make the people’s problems go away.”

Zach tilted his head at that, raising his eyebrows, “Wait, she actually sits on the throne and ‘receives the people’ with their issues? For real? They line up to be heard one at a time?”

“Yeah,” Chris nodded, “Do you not do that?”

“Um, no?” Zach laughed incredulously. “That’s some medieval shit right there. I’m sure there’s an office somewhere where people send letters and they get filtered up the food chain, but getting something done like that with five million people? I’d never leave the damn chair.”

Chris chuckled, “True. I think my Aunt just likes doing it.”

“Did you like it there?” Zach asked curiously. “That was the first time I’d ever been to Genovia.”

Chris thought back to those two weeks. Even with the crazy schedule and the culture shock, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t enjoy parts of it, the beautiful quiet countryside, the people, his friends on the staff, the food, and admittedly, the opulent lifestyle too. “Yeah. I did.”

Zach stared up at him, whispering, “Do you like it here? With me?”

Chris pulled his fingers through Zach’s silky hair, looking down at the soft, warm caramel of his eyes, “Yeah. I do.”

It earned him wide smile, Zach reaching up to touch Chris’ face, “Here’s one thing the Brothers’ Grimm got wrong. No way would you be able to disguise yourself as a beggar, or a soldier. You could never hide these eyes. I’d know them anywhere.”

“Maybe I'd get color contacts,” Chris countered, stroking his own chin, “And I’d shave my grisly beard.”

“There are _other_ things about you I wouldn’t forget,” Zach murmured, turning his face to nuzzle Chris’ groin. “There’s no way we’d be married as beggars and wouldn’t have fucked in your hovel. My pride be damned, bend me over your cot.”

Chris thumped him gently on the forehead with the book, giggling. 

“Drag your grisly beard over my ass,” he grinned wickedly, and Chris dumped him unceremoniously over onto the carpet. Laughing, Zach pulled himself up between Chris’ knees, “Come on, you’d be hot with a beard.”

Chris couldn’t contain his smile, stroking his chin, “You think so?”

“Mmm,” Zach pushed his fingers up under Chris’ sweater, lifting up to murmur against his tummy, “I know so. Plus, give me another week and I could pass for a Beast in my cursed castle. Would you tolerate me even then?”

“’S not cursed.” Chris snorted, squirming at how just a few days’ of Zach’s own stubble rasped at the sensitive skin below his belly button. “Drag me off to your lair and let’s find out, you terrible monster.”

Teeth nipped at his skin with a growl as Zach levered them both up and tracked Chris closely to the bed with hot breath on the back of his neck. At least his libido hadn’t suffered. Hopefully, a few more days would draw said Beast back into the sunlight.

 

+

 

There was really nothing quite like waking up right on the brink of orgasm. Chris came within seconds of realizing he was even awake, into a hot, pulsing, amazing mouth, pleasure radiating out from his center to all his limbs as the deliverer of his bliss crawled up, emerging from under the warm sheets, soft wet lips still tugging thrills from every bit of skin they touched.

“Wake up, sweet prince,” Zach’s rumbly murmur buzzed over his ear.

“Mmm,” Chris heaved a sated groan, “You’re the prince.”

The answering giggle was hot and muffled in his neck, “King.”

“Whatever,” he grumbled. “‘Time is it?”

“Time to get up, beautiful,” Zach jogged him, voice singsong.

Giving a stretch, Chris sprawled out further into the silky sheets, cracking his eyes and whining, “But it’s still dark.”

“Welcome to Scandinavian winters,” Zach giggled.

“Five more minutes?”

Zach breathed across his chest and nibbled, “Nope.”

“You’re not gonna fuck me?” He dragged a hopeful foot up along Zach’s leg, spreading himself wider in invitation.

There was a bite again, harder, and a hungry growl, “I might. If you get up and in the shower. We have a big day ahead of us.”

There was a brightness in Zach’s voice that hadn’t quite been there in days, and Chris cracked an eye again to see that glint of mischief.

“We do?”

“Yup,” he grinned into a kiss. “I’m going to show you my kingdom.”

Zach did fuck him, quick and intense in his state-of-the-art shower with the steam jets billowing around them. Chris didn’t even get hard again, but he’d started to think he could definitely wake up to this every day—Zach hitting the switch for a warm gentle rain from above afterwards, kissing him languidly as soapy hands cleaned them both, feeling like he was worshipped. He had Chris dry and dressed in casual clothes before he was even halfway awake.

“Come on,” Zach kissed him soundly, pulling him by the hand to the door, “Let’s get you fed and caffeinated.”

“You know me too well,” Chris hummed.

“After a semester of your grumpy bitching at seven in the morning?” Zach said smugly. “Of course I do.”

He led him out of the room before the footman were even around to open doors, and to another hidden door in the hallway paneling that Chris ought to have been aware of before now. It led to a servant’s passage with an elevator, though Zach took the stairs down three flights, down narrow halls and into the large kitchen, the air already warm and thick with the smells of baking.

“Your Majesty! Your Highness!” the staff greeted, surprised as they bustled through their morning work, carrying trays of fresh pastries and stirring pots.

“Good morning,” Zach returned, looking over their worktops. He spoke to one of the chefs, “I’m sorry, I know it’s earlier than you’re used to being ready. I wonder if you might do us a little favor.”

In no time at all, someone had given Chris a warm slice of fresh-baked bread with butter and blueberry jam and a steaming mug of coffee just how he liked it, Zach watching him scarf it down with gleaming eyes. Soon after, someone had prepared a basket full of rolls, fruits, hard sausages and cheese, as well as two thermoses of more coffee, and Zach was pulling him along once again while he was still sucking jam off his thumbs.

They emerged into a large garage, Zach reaching over to flip on the lights in three flicks, illuminating the five immaculately polished vehicles stored there. Chris blinked several times at such a vision in front of his eyes, the little boy in him lighting up like Christmas morning.

“Take your pick.”

“What?” he blurted.

Zach ran his fingers along the door frame of the black Audi R8 nearest to him. “This was Edvard’s personal collection. Like I said before, he loved his fast cars. Used to challenge other hot shots to street races, get papped and really piss Razz off.” He strode back and put a hand on the small of Chris’ back, urging him forward, “Go on. Which one should we take out?”

Chris took a deep breath, overwhelmed at being given such a choice. He’d never even seen some of these with his own eyes before. A glowing red Maserati was on the far end, along with a Ferrari 458 Italia, a Jaguar F-Type. But it was the ’57 Mercedes SL, a creamy white hardtop with a red interior that made his balls ache. “Are you sure we can…?” he started to ask, leaning over to look into it with longing.

Zach grinned smugly, punching a code into a wall safe and extracting the key. He pulled open the passenger door for Chris, who still gawked at him. “Go on, get in.”

He obeyed, sliding in on the slick red leather as if he might mar it just by breathing.

Zach closed the door and twirled around to the driver’s side, face wild as he started her up, purring like a kitten and sounding so beautiful Chris smothered a moan. Zach rumbled a laugh, backing her out of the space and heading towards the garage entrance, punching a button to open it, “Once we make our escape, I’ll even let you drive.”

Chris’ brain short-circuited enough at the thought of driving this perfect piece of machinery, that it took him a minute to process that: their early morning, no security or valets in sight, the only cooks in the kitchen the earliest of bakers. As Zach steered them out to the side gate, still barring the public from entry, the single young guard on duty looked confused in the morning dark before snapping to attention at the sight of the King at the wheel. Zach pointed and nodded at the gate, prompting the guard to open it, still perplexed. “Escape?” he finally asked.

“Escape, Christopher,” Zach grinned maniacally as he gunned the engine and they screeched out onto the thankfully quiet morning streets.

“You didn’t tell anyone,” Chris held on, alternately watching the road, looking at the complete and total glee on Zach’s face, feeling the childish thrill of such a hot machine roaring under him. “You didn’t tell anyone you were doing this.”

“Nope!” Zach shouted and the car sped up as he shifted gears. “Escape!”

“Even Anton?”

“We’ve got some time to ourselves for awhile,” he grinned, reaching over to squeeze Chris’ knee. “You might as well settle in, we have about a two hour drive.”

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere neither of us has ever been,” Zach answered cryptically, maneuvering the car onto the highway running along Copenhagen’s major waterway and really opening her up. The thrill overtook Chris’ nerves, and he whooped in excitement. Shit, this car was sexy.

Zach drove for several minutes before he spoke again, his voice low and thoughtful. “King Christian X—who was my Great Uncle twice removed, or something like that—he used to ride his horse through the streets of Copenhagen every single day, so the people could see him, speak to him. He’d go out with no bodyguard. There’s a legend that during the occupation, a Nazi soldier asked a little boy in the crowd how the King thought he was so safe. And the little boy replied, ‘All of Denmark is his guard’.

“Of course, he only barely tolerated the occupation to protect his people, funded the escape of thousands of Jews to Sweden and completely spurned Hitler, who threw a massive hissy fit when his birthday wishes to the King were flippantly acknowledged,” Zach finished.

“Soren told me about that,” Chris grinned, “This Christian guy was ballsy.”

A people’s king, one in touch with his subjects, and with no fear, even during wartime and knowing full well he didn’t have the defenses to fight. He’d done the only thing he could have done, stayed neutral, held fast, and stayed visible. It almost made a monarchy make some sense in a modern era, if the people loved their royal family so much, to still look to them as a symbol of stability and hope in a time of uncertainty and fear. In the world he and Zach had grown up in, it was unheard of for a king or any other high ranking government official to go anywhere without security. And yet, here they were, driving through the streets with like normal people again, and that felt good too. He’d been feeling claustrophobic the last few days, shut up within the palace echoing with sadness and grief.

The city was beautiful, a combination of old-world Renaissance and sleek modernity. As they cruised down through the southern reaches, buildings of both old and new designs blended and merged into residential areas interspersed with dark parkland, draped in fog and sparkling with dew in the streetlights. 

By time the sun finally peeked over the horizon to chase away the mist, they were driving through miles of farmland, flat fields of brown-tilled earth awaiting the spring or yellow and green grasses cropped down short by sheep and cattle, set to graze on the remainders before the growing season. Occasionally they’d pass through small towns and villages, and Zach would consult his phone and merge onto another motorway. He unwrapped their basket of food, biting into one of the apples as he drove, handing the basket across to him and chuckling at Chris’ horror at the mere idea of drips and crumbs in this exquisite car—“There’s a detailer on staff, Pine. You know how you get when you don’t eat.”

The farms gave way to natural grassy scrubland as vast stretches of sea came into view. Soon the landmass narrowed and the highway arched up, stretching out in a long suspension bridge over open water. It shouldn’t have been so surprising; Chris knew Denmark was made up of peninsulas and hundreds of islands both large and small, but it still made him roll down the window to feel the biting salty wind on his face. It reminded him of crossing the Bay Bridge or the Golden Gate back home as the huge girders carried them above the water, these ones blue instead of red.

After they’d regained the ground, they came to a larger city and Zach looked again to his directions as he navigated the streets, asking Chris, “Have you figured me out yet?”

Though they’d past a number of signs on the way, since arriving at the palace Chris had admittedly not paid much attention to his whereabouts, he was mostly just absorbing the newness of it all. It wasn’t until he spotted another sign that his morning brain came back online and noted the familiar name of the city of Odense, one he had a thumbtack stuck into on his map back home, the birthplace of his favorite fairytale author.

“No way,” he rounded on Zach, who grinned as he made another turn, and another, and they finally pulled to a stop at a tiny, yellow half-timbered house with a red tiled roof, one Chris recognized intimately from numerous long nights of research and, if he was honest, bucket-list planning. Now it was right in front him; the little house in which Hans Christian Andersen was born.

“You brought me here?” he wondered, “Why?”

“To make you happy,” Zach said simply, his hand finding Chris’ across the seats. “Are you?”

Chris shook his head, stunned and amazed. “Yeah.”

Zach pulling his hand over to kiss the knuckle. “Come on, we didn’t come just to see the outside.”

Of course, their arrival caused a bit of a fuss, as an incredibly flustered museum employee tripped over her words in both Danish and some English for Chris’ benefit, explaining there was a school group imminently scheduled to tour the premises. Excited children were already exiting a bus which had arrived immediately behind them, crowding the sidewalk, wearing matched t-shirts with a school insignia under colorful coats and holding hands.

“That’s okay, right?” Zach smiled at Chris, “We don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” he agreed.

“We’ll just walk through with them, we don’t need any special treatment,” Zach assured her, “You won’t even know we’re here.”

Which was complete and utter bullshit. The teachers and other adults with the class absolutely knew who they were, and word quickly spread through the kids that the new King was here. But being children of maybe Luca’s age, their amazement quickly subsided as the tour led on.

Given the minuscule size of the place, it wasn’t a long one. The house itself was cozy and appointed with antiques both authentic and replicated to make it appear as it would have in the 19th century when Andersen had been a child there. Beyond the house was a more modern building housing more artifacts, including the cobbling tools of his shoemaker father, a few original manuscripts and a small library of books and a gift shop. Chris found himself thumbing through a picture book of one of his favorites, _The Emperor’s New Clothes_. The text was in Danish, but he didn’t need it, he knew it all by heart. 

There was a tug on his shirtsleeve and he looked down to see a little tow-headed girl, her haircut much like his own had been when he was very little.

“Hi,” he said, squatting down so she could see the pictures too. He told the story to her, certain she probably didn’t understand him, until he got to the end and she smiled, her eyes wide, before she whispered in his ear, “Are you _den Kongens Prinsesse_?”

She’d switched languages mid-sentence, but that one was easy enough to grasp. He stifled a giggle, watching as her bright eyes cut to Zach, lingering in the doorway over his shoulder, watching with a tender look on his face. He whispered secretly back. “Maybe.”

“ _Gitte! Lad os gå!_ ” One of the teachers called out to the girl, and her hair swung a halo as she ran to catch up with her class. Standing, Chris caught sight of another woman, perhaps a helping mother, hastily stowing her phone away with some embarrassment as the group shuffled out to the waiting bus. He shelved the book away with a huff and went back to Zach’s side, a little perturbed.

Zach’s fingers came up to his chin, bringing his head back up from his shoes. “It’s okay.”

“That’s gonna be up on the internet in a less than minute,” Chris muttered, feeling almost as violated as the paps made him feel.

“I know,” Zach agreed with resignation, “It’s part of this life, Chris, you know that now.”

He did, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept. 

“Anyway, I knew we were going to get caught on this little adventure, it’s not going to stop us,” Zach told him, “We’re only getting started.”

He thanked the museum employees, graciously shaking hands and paying the museum fee even when they tried to wave him away. After the school bus had pulled away, they headed back to the car. 

“Hey Chris,” Zach drew his attention, and he had to react on instinct to catch the keys tossed to him.

“No way,” he breathed. 

“Yes way,” Zach grinned, shutting himself in the passenger’s seat of the SL. Chris swallowed, getting in on the driver’s side and staring at the console in front of him. “Zach, I don’t think—”

“Don’t think, just drive,” Zach patted his knee. “It’s just like your old Camaro.”

“Yeah, right, this is exactly like my beat-up POS,” he muttered, but as he slid the key in the ignition and started it, that beautiful German engineering revving underneath him felt like utter bliss.

He was still desperately careful, though, Zach guiding him out into the city streets and eventually back out to the highway heading east. Once they reached the straightaway and he was able to gun it and eat up the asphalt his nerves dissipated for the glorious feeling of being behind the wheel of a car that was meant for the open road.

Right up until he saw flashing lights in the rearview after they’d crossed back over the bridge.

“Oh shit,” he breathed, heart throttling his ribs, “Oh shit, Zach.” He pulled the car gingerly onto the easement, certain he was about to get arrested in a foreign country and deported. His mom was going to murder him.

“Calm down, Chris,” Zach chuckled, squeezing his shoulder as he looked out the back window at the police car. “That officer is realizing something very, very important, right about now.”

“What?” Chris squeaked through clenched teeth, “He’s about to see a stupid American tourist piss himself in a classic Mercedes?”

“Nope,” Zach said, catching his eye with an eyebrow waggle. “This car has the Danish Crown’s plates. But please don’t pee in the car, okay? You weren’t even speeding.”

Chris stared at him, and then back to the cop car in the rearview. He saw the officer vaguely through the windshield, gesturing wildly with the radio in his hand. He opened his car door, and then closed it, and then opened it again, before he finally got out and proceeded to hesitate on the pavement for a full minute, straightening his tie, poking various bits of the uniform, then opening his door again to retrieve a baseball style cap with the word _POLITI_ embroidered across the front. He looked young, nearly as young as they were. Finally he steeled himself, striding over to their car as Chris cringed and rolled down the window.

The officer bent down to look at them, and by the look on his face and the sweat on his brow knew what, or who, he’d find. He snapped back up to attention, and then aborted that and bent back down to bow his head formally through the window. “ _Deres Majestæt_ ,” he greeted timidly, nodded to Chris, “Sir.”

They got out to handle things on the verge. The cop and Zach conversed back and forth in Danish, Zach's face calm and smiling, if a little haughty when the tone got a little strained and argumentative. Finally, the officer saluted, bid them goodbye, and went back to his car. Once he’d pulled his vehicle around and drove away, Chris look to Zach for explanation. 

With a headshake, Zach merely pulled open the passenger’s side door, “Come on, let’s switch.”

“Great,” Chris muttered, “I got you in trouble, didn’t I? I got you in big trouble.”

“Chris, get in the car.”

Once switched and situated, Zach smiled tightly at him. “No one’s in trouble. I’m the King, remember?” He started the engine once again, moving them back onto the highway. “Anyway, we have other places to go, so I might as well drive.”

He was quiet for a few minutes while Chris calmed himself down, and reached over to take Chris’ hand again, eyes on the road. “I had to talk him out of a police escort,” he explained. “Which doesn’t matter, he’s already alerted his station, they’re duty-bound to alert the palace, who are probably already having a giant fit as we speak.”

“You should have told somebody.”

“Maybe,” Zach shrugged, “But fuck it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Chris, fuck it,” Zach sighed, his face flashing something raw and determined. “Today is for you and me. I just wanted to have this for us. They’re not gonna stop me.”

They drove back, the farmland now bright in the wintry sunlight and the city of Copenhagen shining. Zach brought the car off the highway and quickly around to another grand building, complete with a garden and fountain and signs Chris was quickly learning meant they shouldn’t be able to park here, yet Zach did. He got out, ushering Chris through the main doors of the place.

“This is the Royal Library. It’s also the main library for the University of Copenhagen. This is the old building,” he explained as they walked through a magnificent hall as rich any palace, ignoring the gasps of people in the quiet, “It was designed as a copy of Charlemagne’s cathedral.” He guided Chris over to a glass case showcasing a manuscript. Chris couldn’t read the language, but found the name of its author on the brass plate. 

“Kierkegaard?” he whispered with a snort.

Zach grinned, beckoning him to follow as he walked backward to a bright hall, which merged into a glass walking bridge over the street and opened into a massive, thoroughly modern glass building. “And this part is called the Black Diamond.”

They arrived into huge bright space with escalators and floors filled with shelves and millions of books, several stories up and down.

“Oh wow,” Chris gasped from the railing. Berkeley had a few beautiful libraries, but they were nothing compared to the scale of this place. 

“It’s the biggest collection of books and writing in all of Scandinavia,” Zach’s voice purred low in his ear from behind, hands finding his waist. “Do you like it?”

“Uh-huh,” he breathed, itching to dive into all of those shelves, all that knowledge as his feet. 

“Good,” Zach murmured, “Because it’s all yours.”

“Yeah right.”

“Well, technically, since I am the Patron, it’s mine to give to the people,” Zach said smugly, “Including you.”

Chris looked back over his shoulder with an excited grin, “Can I?”

“Go play,” Zach laughed.

The next few hours found Chris deeply engrossed in his element. There were entire rooms full of rare books, first editions, manuscripts and collected correspondence of Kierkegaard—Chris looked on politely, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the enthusiasm of its head curator—as well as those of Hans Christian Anderson—Chris nearly lost his shit at the sight of a handwritten manuscript of the _The Nightingale_. 

In the stacks, there was no shortage of books on any subject in dozens of languages. He read voraciously, drinking it all in, Zach trailing him nearby, sometimes peeking in the spaces between shelves and making faces, sometimes passing behind and landing a kiss on the back of his neck, fingers sneaking up under his sweater. He could live here in these walls, surrounded with ink and paper, buried in research on all of his favorite things.

It wasn’t until much later when he was pulled from a book by a whispered argument nearby, Zach sounding exasperated. He rounded a shelf to find him in close conversation with Anton, one of the royal security nearby clearing his throat at Chris’ intrusion.

“I don’t care, Anton,” he hissed. “Tell them we’re fine, nothing’s gone wrong, we’re just having some time to ourselves.”

“Sir, the Queen is insisting—”

“The Queen can insist all she wants,” Zach snapped. “I am the King. Just keep them off our backs for the rest of the day, and when we’re done, we’ll come home, safe and sound. Is that really so difficult?”

“Yes, sir. No, sir,” Anton deferred, melting back out of their space. Zach looked up, catching Chris’ eye and striding over with a smile, rubbing his arms. “Hey, are you hungry?”

“Yeah, actually,” Chris reluctantly nodded, stomach well aware now that he’d had little more than the pastries and fruit since the early morning. “But look, we can go back if—”

“No,” he said firmly. “Let’s go get something to eat, hmm?”

“Zach, maybe we should go back.”

“Not yet. I’m not done,” he said crisply, ushering Chris away with Anton and the grunt following at a careful distance.

Back outside at the car, there was now a multitude of vehicles parked around, security keeping back a crowd of paparazzi and press, flashbulbs going off immediately. Zach ignored them all, getting into the SL and barely waiting for Chris to get belted in before he drove off.

The sun went down early this far north, painting the city in golds and pinks as they drove. The escort he’d tried to avoid now followed behind them as Zach navigated the city streets, arriving at a thatched style building that looked like a medieval inn. As they got out, the valet was quickly waved off by the security while Anton sped into the building ahead of them.

“Is this a restaurant?” Chris asked.

Zach smiled, offering his arm. “There’s a place on the water that’s won Best in the World four times.”

“And we’re not going there?” he wondered, “Is it good?”

“Oh, I guess so, if you want to eat twenty bite-sized courses of moss and salmon foam,” Zach sniffed. “But if I know you, and I think I do, you want something you can taste more than once.” Chris laughed, because it was true. “They say this place has been here four hundred years. They roast whole lamb and fish the size of you on spits in the middle of the hall. And I hear the King has a private table always at the ready.”

“Oh really?” Chris indulged him.

“I guess we’ll find out,” Zach replied, “I’ve never been King before.”

Whatever Anton had done inside had them quickly whisked upstairs to what was indeed a private balcony overlooking the main hall, with an attentive staff that was less perturbed by their arrival than anyone else had been throughout the day. “My Aunt and Uncle made regular visits here, so I’ve heard,” Zach explained after the sommelier had offer them wine and a course of cheese and brown bread arrived.

“I bet they announced themselves ahead of time,” Chris looked at him with a pointed grin.

“I bet,” Zach conceded, looking serious. “I’m not my Uncle, though.”

Chris studied him, before reaching across to take his hand. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be. You’re supposed to be you. It’s going to be different, but that’s how it’s always been. The shift of leadership in every country is always a big deal,” he smiled wryly, “We do it in the States every four to eight years. Trust me, it’s scary as fuck.”

The food was delicious, simple yet perfectly roasted and seasoned meats and vegetables and salad with a baked fruit dessert. Chris ate until he was stuffed and claimed he needed to be carried out, which the staff creepily seemed like they might actually do if prompted.

Zach laughed as he ushered him out to the now dark city. He handed off the keys to the Mercedes to one of the entourage with a whispered order. As the guard got into the SL and quickly drove it away, Zach put a hand on his back to steer him along the sidewalk. 

“What’s next?” Chris grinned, “Back alley clubs? Aren’t you going to show me the seedy VIP underbelly you used to haunt?”

“Nah,” Zach grinned down at the damp paving stones, “That would destroy this whole new good king image I’m trying to cultivate, wouldn’t it? I’d lose whatever precious respect I’ve managed to earn from you.”

Chris chuckled at that. Yeah, those days were probably over now.

“Want to walk a bit?” Zach asked, “There’s one more thing I want to show you. It’s not far.”

They walked along the waterfront for maybe a half mile. There was an old fort there, surrounded by a moat and parkland with trees along the harbor’s edge. Chris flipped up the collar of his coat, his breath showing in the cold now that it was fully dark. Zach took his own scarf from his neck, looping it around Chris’ and buttoning it in. “Cali boy, so delicate.”

“You shush.”

Zach grinned, biting his lip with a mischievous look, “How much do you trust me?” 

Chris blinked at him a little warily, “Enough.”

Zach turned him around, hands on Chris shoulders, “Close your eyes.”

With a hand over Chris’ eyes for good measure, he guided him forward along the walkway until Chris’ hands bumped a chilly iron railing.

“Now, if you believe very, very hard,” Zach murmured warmly in his ear, “You might just see a mermaid.”

He withdrew his hand, and gently illuminated by a hidden spotlight, on a pile of boulders in the water was the famous bronze statue of the Andersen’s Little Mermaid. Chris let out a thrilled laugh to see her. It was all the more real, to have seen the house of the writer himself who dreamed her up and now the result of such wide-reaching literary immortality. 

And Zach was a warm reassuring presence behind him, as he had been all day. “Is it everything you thought it would be?”

“Yes,” Chris answered, turning his head to see the harbor lights reflect in Zach’s dark eyes. “Yes.”

Zach tightened around him, solid and protective, leaning in to kiss his lips, light and chaste but more than once, aware of the security hovering at some distance. Eventually he pulled away and leaned on the railing beside Chris, looking across the water with the sound of it gently lapping below.

“And that,” he pointed to a huge sleek yacht sailing down the opposite side of the harbor, strings of lights making it sparkle on the water, “Is the _Dannebrog_ , the floating palace. I guess the captain must be taking her out for a spin.”

“You actually have your own yacht?” Chris shook his head. “Now you’re just showing off. Falling back on your default method of impressing me?”

“Maybe,” Zach answered with a guilty grin, “Is it working?”

“Maybe,” Chris laughed, shaking his head with a sigh. “This city is incredible. This whole country.”

“Yeah,” Zach looked down at the water rippling around the rocks, thoughtful. “I haven’t spent a lot of time here, to be honest. Edvard and I both went to boarding school in Normandy, shared an apartment in Paris for a season after. When he died, I was living in London, and before that, Amsterdam, Berlin. I just avoided coming back here at all. I didn’t want the lecture.”

“I bet you got it anyway,” Chris smirked, “Along with your palaces and your gigantic library and your freaking yacht.”

“Well, technically, but I’ve never been on it, not yet,” Zach grinned, lifting a hand towards the impressive ship. “It’s where Auntie Razz likes to stay when out visiting our foreign interests. That way, she can turn the air conditioning on high. You know, since it might get so hot in the Faroes or Greenland, her glacial heart might start to melt.”

Chris ducked his head. The Queen was scary as fuck, especially compared to Aunt Clarisse, but he could kind of understand why. “You should go easy on her, you know?”

Zach glanced at him, then down at the water again with some guilt in his stance. “I know. She’s always been that way. She’s cold, but she isn’t malicious, I know that. She just doesn’t like change, and she doesn’t like me. She’s probably right not to.”

“You could change that,” Chris shrugged when Zach looked at him again, “She cares about Denmark, even though it isn’t her country. She cares about your public image. Somewhere in there, I think she cares about you too. Not just as the head of the kingdom. She’d be a good advisor.”

“Maybe,” Zach murmured, resting his chin on his arms folded on the railing, then came back to himself, turning to lean back against it and looking around at the city. “I care about it too. Denmark. I didn’t really know it until I came back. Having you here with me.”

“I like it here. With you,” Chris confessed again, before his body gave an involuntary shiver.

“You’re cold,” Zach frowned and reaching to tug up the scarf and take his hand, “Should we head back, and face the music, so to speak?”

Luckily for Chris, a limo idled close by to take them back to the palace, its interior toasty warm as they were driven back home.

As soon as they stepped out of the car at the palace, Anton approached from one of the others, whispering, “The Queen would like to see you in the drawing room, Your Majesty.”

“Of course she does,” Zach said under his breath. He touched Chris’ side, “You can go ahead, I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Sorry, sir,” Anton urgently interjected, “Her Majesty Queen Clarisse has also requested His Highness’ attendance.”

In the drawing room, Queen Rosalind looked absolutely thunderous, pacing like a caged tiger. Aunt Clarisse sat on a settee sipping tea, giving Chris an inscrutable look. The muted television broadcast still photos and video of the pair of them all over the city, starting from the morning at the museum to just a few moments ago, kissing by the harbor. The speed of information these days was unreal.

“Well,” Queen Rosalind began, nearly spitting, “I hope you’ve had your fun. The press has had a field day with your little adventure, never mind the fright you’ve given us and our security. Do you realize what could have happened to either of you? You could have been attacked, or killed—”

“Nothing happened,” Zach narrowed his eyes, “We went alone for a reason.”

“Not only that, you put the heir of another country’s throne in danger,” she went on, waving wildly at Chris and Clarisse. “That in itself is tantamount to a crime!”

“Now, Rosalind, I hardly think Christopher was not a willing party to this,” Aunt Clarisse interceded, “You make it sound as though he was kidnapped and held for ransom. I see no reason to make such a fuss over two young people wanting to have a day to themselves. Of course, they should have informed us, perhaps taken one or two security along, but that is the only oversight committed here.”

“Denmark is not Genovia,” Queen Rosalind rounded on her, “Copenhagen has more people in a square kilometer than your entire national population, we never know what sort of lunatics could be out there!”

“Such faith in our people,” Zach snorted. “The same people who are out there waving flags and lighting candles for your husband, who gave us condolences everywhere we went. They might dislike me, but they’ve never once threatened my life. My god, Razz, unclench before you hurt yourself.”

“That is precisely my point! You are out gallivanting around like lovesick teenagers while the nation mourns; what does it look like? It is all over the news. National, international. Probably in the US as well, thanks to you,” she jabbed an accusatory finger towards Chris.

“Ros, have you even listened to these broadcasts?” Aunt Clarisse posed, reaching for the remote to unmute the sound.

“—a private dinner in the King’s balcony at Gamelt Vaertshus, followed by a romantic walk on the harbor, near the statue of Den Lille Havfrue,” a reporter’s voiceover described, a video playing of Zach adjusting Chris’ scarf from afar, both of them smiling. Chris had been weirded out by the pap footage of himself since it started, but seeing this and how utterly unaware of everything else he’d been while with Zach was disconcerting. The view switched to a citizen, also bundled up in the night air. “I just saw them walking, they looked so happy. I think it’s wonderful!” she simpered. 

“I think it’s great,” said another bearded hipster type, “This is Denmark, you know? This is who we are. The world should catch up.”

The view switched to an old woman, frowning as she watched the footage on a reporter’s phone. Though her elderly face seemed a scowl, her words came with a smile. “Yes, it is fine, fine,” she said in heavily accented English, “Denmark has this. First, has this King. Other countries, no.”

A middle-aged man in a hat shrugged, “Better than what he’s done before, ja? Will he be a good King? I don’t know. Time will tell.”

The voice-over returned as the footage switched to Chris reading to the little girl, leaving the library, and to them kissing by the water. “There is still no word from the Royal Family on the status of His Majesty’s relationship with American Christopher Pine, who was named Heir to the long abandoned throne of Genovia in December. His Majesty and Prince Christopher were involved in an affair while attending the American University of Berk—”

“Long abandoned,” Aunt Clarisse blustered, cutting the sound again, but looked back to Rosalind. “You see? It seems to me that the public reaction is fairly positive.”

“It is now, while people jump to conclusions,” she stated, “Later on, the approval will most certainly fall, not merely from the people, but from our politicians, from others around the world. What then?”

“I don’t suppose the fact that I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks makes a difference,” Zach dropped in.

“Mind your tongue, Zachary,” Rosalind spat.

“Get used to it,” he shot back.

“Well, then, what if we allow them their romance?” Clarisse declared. “If the whole continent is enraptured with this affair, then why not let it be? The simplest way to dismantle a scandal is to remove the element of secrecy.”

“What do you mean?” Rosalind asked.

Clarisse spread her hands out to each of them with a smile. “Endorse it. Make it official.”

Zach’s eyes snapped to Chris.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rosalind folded her arms across her chest.

“I don’t believe I was,” Clarisse said. “The Queen in me says be careful, some people might disapprove, yes. But the Aunt in me says let them be happy.”

“We are a nation in mourning!” Rosalind spat, pain clear in her voice. “We have lost two of our finest sons. This is simply not the time for happiness.”

“Rosalind, please,” Clarisse spoke gently, “We have both of us lost great men, husbands and sons. I am by no means dismissing your grief. I am merely pointing out the brightness in the dark. These young ones whom we still have, healthy and strong, who will carry us onward. Perhaps together.”

Rosalind was tight-lipped for a time. “There has never been a gay King.”

“Oh, never, Razz,” Zach injected venomously, “Edward II of England. Frederick of Prussia. Louis XIII. Alexander the Great.”

“There has never been an openly gay King,” she amended with a pointed look.

“There is now,” Zach declared, spreading his arms, daring her to dispute him.

“Never one who would be allowed to wed whom he would choose,” Rosalind finished.

Chris met Zach’s eyes again, seeing the fire of triumph there. “Okay, hang on a sec—”

Rosalind ignored him, pacing, “Zachary, you know I neither reject your person nor your rights. We demonstrated our nation’s attitude to the world when you ascended this throne, and no one will deny the legal rights of the kingdom to its own King. But there is also the future to consider. There is the issue of… an issue. Now more than ever, the Crown must produce an heir, and I do not see how—”

“Because there is no possible way for gay people to procreate,” Zach sneered, “What does it even matter anymore, you know we’re all related. A little diversity wouldn’t kill us. Chris is probably a distant cousin in some form or another.”

“Fourteen times removed, in fact,” Aunt Clarisse filled in, and Zach rolled his eyes.

They were all quiet again, before Rosalind sat on the sofa with a defeated huff. “If you were to take a husband, then he will not be a king.”

“Of course he will be King,” Clarisse retorted smartly.

“Out of the question. He would be Consort only.”

“Oh?” Clarisse queried, “And you, Roz? You are Queen, are you not?”

Rosalind glared, “I am Queen by marriage, Clarisse, as are you. Surely you understand the strictures of the title.”

“Of course I do, as they are designated by the sitting monarch,” she said.

“And as you well know, two heirs cannot marry without one or the other forfeiting their crown. The duties of King to country simply don’t allow for the rule of another kingdom, especially one seven hundred miles away.” Rosalind paused and shrugged, trying another angle. “There is, of course, the possibility of annexation.”

“I beg your pardon?” Clarisse said icily, “Genovia has been sovereign for over five hundred years and will remain that way, thank you.”

“And Denmark for twelve hundred,” Rosalind returned. “A protectorate, then, you would retain full autonomy as other Danish territories have done. It would stabilize your economy.”

“Genovia’s economy has been more continuously stable than any other in the European Union, do let us speak of stability, if you please.”

“If only because you have so little room for growth.”

“And yet what we grow is more than enough to line our larders and yours, it seems.”

Chris watched Zach rub a hand over his brow, looking across at him with an almost bruised amusement in his eyes. “I need a drink,” he muttered, turning to leave. No one stopped him, the two queens still arguing in their scathingly polite tones.

He found a wet bar in one of the nearby parlors, pouring a few fingers from a fourteen year old bottle of Scotch and pulling open a set of doors leading out to a balcony overlooking the peaceful gardens and harbor.

“Royal family overload?” Zach’s voice floated over from the french doors.

Chris sighed heavily, folding his arms on the stone banister to look at the dark green shadows below. “Do they always talk about you like you aren’t even standing right there?”

“Sometimes they talk about themselves as if they aren’t even standing right there,” Zach scoffed, “It’s a proverbial game of Risk and we’re the pieces.”

He strode to the banister beside Chris, leaning back against it as he contemplated something in his fingers, letting it catch the light from inside the room. At first Chris thought that it was the signet ring he’d taken to twisting on and off, but when Zach turned to show it to him, it was a simple platinum band with a thin gold center, somewhat dirty and scuffed with wear.

“It was my father’s,” he explained. “When he married my mother, it was quite a scandal, of course. He was an exiled Italian Duke whose right to a dissolved kingdom was disputed by his cousin to the point of public fistfights. But my mother didn’t care. They were in love. People in our position rarely get the privilege.”

He pushed off the railing to face Chris, his dark eyes wide and glimmering as he slowly dropped to one knee.

Chris’ breath caught in his throat, “Zach.”

“Marry me?” he asked quickly, his voice so open and hopeful, holding the ring out to him. “I would want for nothing more in the world if I could be your husband.”

“You’re only doing this because…” Chris floundered, “Because of what our aunts said, because of—”

“Am I?” Zach stopped him. “I’ve had this thing in my pocket all day.”

“But you’re… you’re King. You have to take care of your people.”

“I can do that with you by my side,” Zach stood up, his face ardent, “Chris, this isn’t about making a statement, or political maneuvering. I love you. I’ve been in love with you all along. If you want to be King Christopher Whitelaw Devereaux Pine of Genovia, I would love you. If you want to be just Chris, King of Berkeley Bites, I would still love you.”

“But—”

Zach plowed on, “I wasn’t just being reckless when I took you out today. I did it with intention,” he gestured around them, “Because all this, everything I have… if I have to be King, then I want to share it with you.”

Chris balked, his mind racing, “But if I become King of Genovia, we can’t, there are laws… your Aunt said—”

“I am the King of Denmark,” Zach interrupted snottily, “I can change laws, I can fix it, I can do whatever I want.”

Chris gave that a hesitant, befuddled smile. “I don’t think Parliament would agree.”

Zach’s fierce, bratty expression melted, shaking his head with fond amusement. “See? This is why I need you, Chris. You’re the whole blue sky, keeping me grounded.” He looked down at the ring in his hand, all the intensity of his spoiled side faltering. When his eyes came back up, they were pained, “Are you refusing me?”

“I…” Chris stuttered, “I don’t know. I need to think.”

“Oh. Of course,” Zach nodded awkwardly, stepping back, hurt thick on his face. “I understand.”

“Zach, I…” Chris stopped him, taking a deep breath and closing the distance. “I love you too.”

Zach’s held breath gusted out, his face breaking wide with hope. “You do?”

“Why do you think I came out here?” Chris laughed, but then shook his head in contrast, “But the thing is… the thing is, I fell for you before all of this. Before I knew who you were, before I found out who I am. Before Genovia and your Uncle, and now this. And today has been amazing and nuts, and you’ve been amazing and nuts, but… this is a lot. And I need to think and…” He blushed, looking away from all the heat and adoration in Zach’s eyes, “And it’s really hard to think when you’re looking at me like that.”

“Of course,” Zach blustered, grinning, “Okay. Oh my god, you love me?” When Chris nodded, he darted in to kiss him swiftly, taking Chris’ hand and closing the ring in his palm. “Take it.”

“Zach…”

“Please. You don’t have to wear it,” Zach held Chris’ fingers closed. “For safe keeping. While you think about it, okay?” He palmed Chris’ nape and brought their foreheads together with a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be such a brat, it’s just… I’ve never wanted any of this, but… I feel like I could do it with you. I feel like I could do anything as long as I have you here with me. We could do this, Chris, we could be kings together. We could have our own fairytale, right?”

Chris let go a stunned breath, suddenly aware of the cold again as it misted together with Zach’s between them, “Just give me some time to…”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Zach murmured, backing off again with a hesitant few steps to the doors. He paused on the threshold, “Will you…Will you come to me tonight?”

Chris recognized it for what it was—an out. Obviously, he’d been with Zach every night since he’d arrived, but here and now, Zach was letting him off the hook in order to do his thinking, in order not to overwhelm him further. And even if Chris did choose to come to him, if they did pass the night as they had every other, it wouldn’t mean it was an answer.

Just the same, Chris couldn’t help but feel it would be just that. He looked back at his drink on the railing, at the last layer of liquid in the bottom, meeting Zach’s eyes again, “I’ll think about it.”

Teeth worrying at his lip, Zach nodded acquiescence before he left Chris to himself.

Back in the Blue Room he’d barely occupied in the week and a half since he’d arrived, he shut himself in and made for the wet bar, pouring himself another finger and laughing to himself as he reached for the ring in the corner of his jeans pocket. He’d just been proposed to, on a fucking royal palace balcony, by a king on bended knee. What the hell was his life?

He wondered how this could even work. Most likely, Zach could not change the laws that had been in place for a thousand years. But why not? It wasn’t as if kings and queens had never ruled from afar either—they simply appointed other heads of state to act in their stead. Obviously this wasn’t colonial times anymore, and it would be much easier than ever in the Information Age to make decisions, and easily travel between the two countries if necessary. If it wasn’t about acquiring lands or power anymore, then why the hell not?

But what was he thinking? He hadn’t even decided if he wanted to be King of Genovia yet. And never mind that—what about all his own plans, his own dreams? What about being a professor?

Of course he still wanted it, he still wanted to do his research and write his papers and give his speeches, but none of that was off the table. Kings were expected to be well educated, even to the doctoral level. And it wasn’t always so busy, both Zach and Aunt Clarisse said as much, and if there were downtimes, he’d have the time and access for his own passions. He could still get his PhD. He might not be a professor teaching in a classroom, but he could still use it the way he really wanted to, to publish work and influence education. He could still accomplish that goal.

Zach loved him. This week, this entire day, the museum and the library and the way Zach looked at him with so much tenderness and contentment, the way he’d taken him in and accepted and forgiven, jesus did Zach love him. And he loved Zach too, he had been in love with him for months, it was so obvious now. He had fallen for him back at that stable, watching him with Dazzle the horse, laughing his head off that one time at the Bite when the Zach had slipped and dumped an entire pan of cold meatball marinara all over himself, at his home with his family, playing with his dog and his nephew. Fuck, he’d never loved anyone like this, someone who drove him up a wall in so many ways, someone who was so far from that impossible ideal, but was instead a perfect compliment to his own quirks and flaws. He’d flown halfway around the world because he’d fallen in love with a prince, now a king, and this was real.

Maybe they really could do this. Maybe they could completely buck tradition and be two kings, and be together. Sure, people would say it had never been done before, but why should that stop them? Nothing ever changed if people didn’t try it. He could still have his dreams, and he have Zach and Genovia too. He could have it all.

Galvanized, he tossed back the scotch in one wincing swallow and went to the bookcase, pulling the book covering the latch, and felt his way down the dark secret passage.

Zach’s room was dim, lit only by the bedside lamps and the firelight, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Zach stood by the windows, nursing a drink of his own, still clothed, though only in his slacks and his shirt unbuttoned to his bare chest. He turned at Chris’ emergence, eyes shadowed, his stance cautious and waiting.

Chris let the shelf snick shut behind him, moving into the room himself. Zach set his tumbler down on a table and came farther into the light, his beautiful face still anxious, hopeful.

He took a deep breath and said, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Zach repeated, a question, though he moved a step closer. 

Chris closed the distance, sliding the halves of Zach’s shirt through his fingers. “I want this. I want the fairytale.”

Zach’s exhale was as if he'd never breathed before, his forehead dropping to his own, “Really?”

A smile pulled at Chris’ mouth, “Yeah.” He pushed a hand into his pocket for the ring, slipping it onto his own finger between them. Zach’s hands grasped it, staring before they slid up and around him, drawing him tight. “Oh my god, I’m dreaming.”

Chris laughed, “Then you should probably take me to bed before I turn into a pumpkin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_King Grisly Beard_ by the Brother's Grimm](http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/KingGris.shtml)


	11. Tale As Old As Time

Chris woke in the dark, overly warm with a thick covering of velvet duvets, silky sheets and Zach draped heavily against his back, sound asleep. He stayed still, listening to the deep intake of his breath, feeling it release hot and damp in the crook of his neck, letting himself forget everything else for the moment.

He’d never really had much luck in relationships. The longest, though arguably not greatest, was with a girl in his freshman year that had fizzled out largely because of combined school stress and Chris’ own personal hang-ups. And it wasn’t that he was a commitment-phobe, it wasn’t that he was looking elsewhere; it was that, at the time, he wasn’t even sure what the hell he was going to do with his life back then. He admired that John and Kerri had stuck it out all this time, though they’d gone through all the same shit. John had always had better luck with this stuff than he did, and a better head on his shoulders; he was less easily distracted, less apt to over-analyze himself into a corner. 

His parents were the closest ideal he had of how a relationship was supposed to be. Did they still feel like this, after thirty years together? How skewed was his sense of how this really worked? How much of the fairytale romance was based on reality, or his imagined ideal of the happily ever after?

Not much, probably. For one thing, he knew that his dad snored like a sawmill, to a point that his mom occasionally kicked him to the guest room or moved there herself. He knew, from a lifetime of observance, they had their arguments and differences. He had friends with parents that had divorced, more than had stuck it out. He’d been told that it took work and a lot of compromise to stay together, but that it was worth it. 

And however much he wanted to believe this one moment in time was perfect, he was too hot and sweaty under Zach’s weight, and he had to pee. He carefully wriggled out from under the arm corralling him and slipped out of the bed, pulling the blanket back up. Zach snuffled and flopped to his stomach.

Rinsing his hands afterwards, he stood looking out the windows at the harbor, watching the muzzy lights and listening to the muffled boat horns beneath the fog. It wouldn’t be too long before the palace would be waking up. Today was Zach’s Coronation Ball.

Shivering in the draft, he found his robe and pulled it on, checking his phone for any calls from his parents, and saw that he had texts from Cho.

_Saw pictures of you Kanoodling with a King by a Kanal. Kall me._

He smiled and hit the button to dial.

“ _Gutentag_ , My Liege.”

“What?”

“Isn’t Danish one of those languages brought to you by the letter K?”

“Shit, I dunno. It’s nothing like German though.”

“Where’s your main Dane now?”

Chris smiled over at the bed where Zach was sprawled and lightly snoring, keeping his voice low, “He’s asleep.”

“Ah. Well done, I guess. I don’t need details, though.”

“Shut up.”

“So what’s up, man?”

Chris sat on the sofa in front of the flickering fireplace with a huge exhale. Where to even start?

“So I came to Copenhagen and interrupted a royal parade. And then I met the King, and then he died, and I went to his funeral. And then, uh…” he paused, heart flipping, “And then… the new one proposed to me. On a fucking palace balcony.”

“O Romeo! Did my heart love ’til now?” John misquoted, making Chris laugh lowly. “Hm. Well, I had an pretty interesting week too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I had a bad sandwich because my usual guy is AWOL. And then I bought a new pack of underwear, on sale. And I got a 93% on my Economics exam. My mom called, her dog has that butt problem again.”

“Gross.”

“So, is it the fairytale you thought it would be?”

“Not really.”

“I figured that,” Cho said. “Is he worth it?”

“Maybe,” Chris muttered as he thumbed at the ring on his finger, then closed his eyes and sighed, “Jesus, John. I don’t know if this is the right thing or if it’s just selfish or if I even deserve any of this and I just… I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t either, buddy,” Cho said softly, “I wish I did.”

They held the line for a few minutes, taking comfort in the sound of familiar breath.

“You know everything changes after this, anyway,” Cho said. “No matter what, you know? Kerri and me, after graduation, we’re, uh, kind of thinking about… we’re going to, uh,” he trailed off, but Chris understood.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, maybe. Probably. I’m scared too, you know. Fucking shitless.” 

Chris squirmed at the weird feeling in his chest that was trying to be two things at once: happy for his best friend, but also sad for everything their lives had been up to now. It would all change after this. It was inevitable, no matter what choices he made. They couldn’t be kids forever.

“No, I know. And that’s great, man. I’m happy for you.”

“I’m happy for you too. You deserve that, you know. You’re too good a dude to just keep taking punches,” Cho said. “Even though your Prince Charming is awfully suspect.”

Chris huffed a laugh as a light knock sounded, and Anton and Soren came through the doors. “I have to go. There’s another Prom-On-Steroids to go to.”

“Good morning, Your Majesty, Your Highness,” Soren greeted as he hung up, rousing Zach with a grumble. “Majesties Queen Rosalind and Queen Clarisse have requested to breakfast with you both this morning.”

“Nngh, fuck that,” Zach groaned, pulling the covers over his head and curling into a lump beneath.

Anton added, “They’re waiting in the King’s Parlor, sirs.”

“Let them fucking wait, then,” came Zach’s muffled answer.

Chris shook his head, looking to their two valets, “I got this, guys. Give us a minute.”

“Of course,” Soren nodded, and Anton followed him out.

Chris shrugged out of his robe and slipped back under the blankets. The air felt thick and warm in his lungs, but he tucked himself back up against Zach, kissing whatever skin his mouth found—a shoulder.

“Morning,” he whispered.

Zach rolled over to face him, both of them still tucked fully beneath the silken sheets. They bumped noses and giggled.

“No more lazy mornings, I guess.”

Letting out a noise of discontent, Zach wriggled closer, their hands tangled in the space between. Neither of them spoke for long seconds before Zach clawed the covers away to a gasp of cool air, pulling their hands out in the dim of the morning, tracing the ring on his finger.

“So, that happened,” Chris said.

Zach laughed with delight, “I love you.”

“I love you.”

It felt so heady to say that. And he meant it too, that was the craziest part. The feeling was real, despite everything else that ought to be wildly unlikely. Zach grinned against his lips, kissing him, then deepening it hungrily. 

“Breakfast,” Chris reminded him from the corner of his mouth, and getting a petulant whine.

“Zachary,” he prodded, “We are polite, well-brought-up guys who don’t keep ladies waiting.”

“King. I do what I want.”

Chris rolled up on his elbow, challenging that with an eyebrow.

“Fuck. Okay, fine.”

 

+

 

“Well, my lovely young gentlemen,” Aunt Clarisse spoke as the remains of cold cuts and eggs were replaced with a bread and pastry course. “I think congratulations are in order.”

Chris met her bright and knowing eyes as she glanced to the ring on his finger. He blushed furiously down at his plate, but Zach was smiling like the cat with the canary from the head of the table. 

“You don’t think it a bit hasty?” Queen Rosalind eyed them both with an unreadable expression as she delicately smeared a pastry with jam.

Zach narrowed his eyes at her, “You were the one who brought it up last night.”

“That was hypothetical, Zachary.”

“Not to me, it wasn’t,” he retorted, taking Chris’ hand in his own, “I wasn’t going to pass having this up.”

“I don’t blame you at all, darling,” Aunt Clarisse beamed.

“Geez, you guys,” Chris muttered, his cheeks aflame.

“Of course, this means you have made your decision regarding your place in Genovia,” Rosalind said in crisp business tones.

“No,” he sobered quickly, “No, it doesn’t.”

She blinked back at him, as did Aunt Clarisse, before assuming her kind, teaching smile, “Christopher dear, perhaps you are not aware, but when the heirs of two kingdoms intend to marry, one of them—”

“I know that,” he interrupted, “I know, but it doesn’t have to be that way anymore, don’t you see?”

“I’m afraid that I don’t see,” she replied hesitantly, and Queen Rosalind also looked skeptical.

“How often has that ever happened anyway?” Chris tried to explain, “I mean, historically, most countries never even allowed women to rule unless there was absolutely no one else. And now that’s different all over, including here and Genovia. You even changed your primogeniture laws so that Amelia could be the heir.”

“That is a separate issue,” Rosalind forestalled him.

“Is it?” he countered, “If you can change a law that’s been in place for centuries to allow women to rule equally, then why can’t we change the law to let us rule our own countries without forfeit? This isn’t colonialism anymore, no one is planting a flag and taking over the other. Aunt Clarisse, just because something’s never been done doesn’t mean it can’t change.”

“And perhaps you have not been told,” Rosalind injected again, “Genovia’s very existence hinged upon a marriage between a Renaldi and a member of Zachary’s own House Savoy. Had that alliance not been arranged and neutrality brokered, the Genovian Valley would likely have been irreparably damaged by war.”

“For what? So the aristocracy didn’t lose access to their fancy pears and wine?” he countered, “That was five hundred years ago. Things are different now, this isn’t a political decision.”

“Do not make the mistake of thinking anything you do as Sovereign is not political,” Rosalind retorted. “In any contract between kingdoms, everything is.”

Chris looked to Clarisse, who nodded quietly, “She is right, dear.”

He looked between them both, and then to Zach, who also seemed torn. Was that what Zach had expected, that Chris would just give up on Genovia? “This is still my family’s responsibility,” he told him determinedly, “My responsibility. I can’t let go of that.”

“Okay,” Zach took his hand over the corner of the table again, “We can work it out, like you said,” he turned to the others. “We can split the time. It’s not as if Chris would never be there or I wouldn’t be here, there’s nothing hinging on this. We’re not enemies, we’re both countries with a history of neutrality, and obviously neither of us is a great military power.”

“We are a founding member of the North Atlantic Alliance,” Rosalind reminded him. “The Danish Defence—of which you are Commander-In-Chief, Zachary—has sent our troops to Iraq and Syria as recently as six months ago.”

Zach shot back, “For civilian and air support only.”

“With orders to act in accordance within NATO chain of command, Zachary, you know how this works,” she retorted, and Zach’s jaw clenched. She continued, flicking a gaze toward Clarisse, “Not all wars are military; most are fought from behind desks. I have heard there are several conservatives within the French government who intend to push significant mining expansions into those mountains, which will very likely damage your agricultural lands and water supply.” 

“Those issues are being dealt with,” Clarisse argued, “I have personally overseen legislation to block those measures.”

“Indeed, as a sitting ruler should,” Rosalind nodded to her condescendingly, and turned to Chris again, gesturing, “On one hand, a neighbor is your ally. On another, your enemy. As King, these are the issues you must deal with on a daily basis. Issues that are best dealt with in person. Tell me, how do you intend to maintain a marriage over distance when such negotiations can often carry on for years?”

“These are foreign affairs,” Zach said, “It’s the Prime Minister’s job—”

“And you are entering into a legal contract with a foreign country’s government,” she replied.

“Then we’d outline it all ahead of time,” he thumped the table with a fist, “It’s not a state issue, it’s not as if we’re drawing up a treaty, it’s just a marriage.”

“Oh, but if one of you is not willing to give up power, then what else is it, if not a treaty, Zachary?” Rosalind countered her nephew with a hint of a smile, “Our European Union has never been more unstable than it is now, so many of our neighbors turning away from global cooperation, our treaties and alliances are all at risk. And what of emergencies that give us no warning at all? Natural disasters, global warming? How will you schedule those?”

Zach had no answer, even looking to Clarisse himself.

“Ros, my dear, perhaps they have a point,” she put in compromisingly. “Let’s not pretend that many of these issues are not largely handled by our Ministers and their departments. Our monarchies are both figurative.”

“But not so much so that we have no political sway. If there is any hint of cooperation between our countries, there will be those who will demand a profitable return for the privilege. Zachary, you must see this even within our own history. We are still in negotiations for Greenland’s autonomy, which other countries, like the US, have sought to access for resources. These discussions have prevailed since before either of you were born.”

“Why won’t you let us try?” Zach argued.

“I will not stand in your way, you are King,” Rosalind stated, “I am only looking at the bigger picture. You will have not only two nations, but two Parliaments to convince.”

“Yes,” Clarisse spoke with uncharacteristic annoyance, “Governments both full of stubborn, pigheaded old men who dislike any progress or decisions made without their conference.” She sighed, frowning to them both, “I do commend your optimism, gentlemen, but I am afraid you may face a fight with those who would seek to exploit your union for political gain. Never minding those who may try to discredit or even hurt you, simply because of what you represent.”

“That won’t happen,” Zach said, fiercely determined. “I won’t allow it.”

“Now that is interesting,” Rosalind said archly, lifting her tea cup to her mouth, “Considering your willingness to run around the city unguarded only yesterday.”

The table fell quiet as Chris searched for more options and came up empty. His hopes fell one by one. He dropped his eyes sadly to his plate.

“Well, let’s not continue arguing over breakfast,” Aunt Clarisse swiftly halted the subject, “I for one am happy that two wonderful young people have found each other.”

Zach smiled weakly, both at her and Chris, but the mood had been soured as breakfast continued, Clarisse and Rosalind discussing finalities for the Ball in the evening, the servants clearing plates and pouring more coffee and tea in the silence.

After they’d finished, Zach paused in the hall before he was to meet with his advisors for a few hours. “It’ll be fine. We have plenty of time to figure it all out. Okay?”

“Maybe we’re wrong, though,” Chris worried. “I didn’t think it would be so complicated.”

“I’m still willing to try. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it. I’ll make it work,” Zach smiled hopefully at him, “The world can fucking deal with us being the least traditional Kings ever.”

He cupped Chris’ face, boldly kissing him in full view of Rosalind, Clarisse and everyone else before turning to go.

Chris approached his aunt warily, but she simply smiled at him with her usual fondness, “I begin to think fretfulness runs in this family, Christopher. Oh, your Zachary looks at you like a flower to the sun! What on earth could make you worry?”

“I just don’t want to make trouble for you,” he muttered.

“Finding someone you love is no trouble at all, my dear,” she said sweetly, squeezing his arm, “And neither is making a few waves. I don’t mean to discourage you! You are teaching us how our future will be, building new traditions where the old no longer apply, not the other way around. Some of us old warts will simply have to adjust, or grudgingly accept that our time has past. These things have ways of working out, you’ll see. Go on now, get some school work done. I shall see you later.”

He obeyed, heading for the stairs, but looked back in time to see a meaningful glance shared between Aunt Clarisse and Joseph—who had stood quietly by all morning with the valets, other assistants and attending servants—ever watchful of his queen.

Aunt Clarisse was not a young woman. She was the same age as King Haraald had been, and while she appeared healthy, he knew never to assume someone would be around in twenty years, in five, even tomorrow. Edvard had been Zach’s age, in his prime, and in a terrible accident he was suddenly taken away.

Plus, she’d had an arranged marriage, and however she may have framed it as a romantic fairytale, he knew it must of have been far more painful to be forced to marry and even have a child with someone she may not have ever truly loved. Now she had someone who clearly loved her for everything she was, someone who would lay down his life for hers, whether it was his job or not. Chris was sure she loved him back, however common Joe was, and nowadays it wouldn’t be such a great big deal for them to be together. For love, not for politics. And all that hedged on someone else taking over, on Aunt Clarisse finally being able to step down and retire. Because apparently the politics still mattered.

But here he was, thinking about getting married himself? After knowing Zach only a few months? Cho had been dating Kerri for years. Katie had dated David all throughout college and grad school. His own parents hadn’t married until almost a decade after they’d first met. Hell, Clarisse had known Joe since well before she was widowed, and maybe they weren’t exactly courting, but then again, maybe they had been, all this time, and they just didn’t want to admit it.

He thumbed at the ring on his finger as he arrived back at his rooms. 

“Young man,” a familiar voice called, and the doorman bowed the Queen into his apartments.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted, wary that Rosalind had come after him without Aunt Clarisse to play the buffer. Would he always have to be so stiff and formal with her?

She strode around the room, her very presence in it commanding as she surveyed his out-of-place belongings amongst the fine furniture and priceless paintings. “This room was favored by Queen Alexandrine, wife to King Christian X, before he assumed the throne.”

“Zach told me about him,” Chris said. “He admires what he did during the war.”

Rosalind hummed lightly in acknowledgement, striding to the table where his school books lay. She opened one, her fingers brushing along the page of his text on late 19th century poets.

“You believe I don’t like you,” she said, eyeing him shrewdly.

Chris shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I don’t know what you think of me, to be honest.”

She slid the book from on top of another, her brows arching as she picked up an Italian novel, passages of which he was attempting to translate for his class. “I must admit, I have my doubts,” she looked back at him. “But you may be the best thing that has ever happened to Zachary.”

“Uh,” he felt his ears heat, “I don’t know about that.”

“You have somehow made a spoiled, feckless, self-absorbed boy take responsibility for himself on behalf of an entire nation,” she continued, “Though I still do not understand your intentions. What you propose, governing two kingdoms at once—it will be difficult. There are many reasons it is not done this way.”

He nodded, hiding his nervous hands in his pockets. “I know that.”

“You will have the responsibilities of both King in one country and of Consort in another. Yes, it is a life of privilege, but it is also a job as I am sure your Aunt has shown you. A Consort must attend council meetings, head patronages, and travel and meet with diplomats as a representative of the Crown, among many other duties. But the foremost of your duty will always be supporting and advising your King.”

“Of course,” he said, “And if I’m here, I will definitely try to—”

“You will require a Danish tutor. The sooner you learn the language, the easier your work here will be.”

Chris grimaced, “I’m barely even passing Italian.”

“If you are to be the King’s Consort, you will be expected to speak the language of his people,” she said with finality, “It was the same for me.”

Okay, sure, but she already spoke a language that was at least similar, if not several, since childhood. He huffed, crossing his arms, “And here I thought you were saying you liked me.”

“Oh, it’s a surprise to me as well. I wonder if Zachary deserves someone like you,” she said, striding over to him and holding out the novel, “I merely caution you of spreading yourself, and your partner, too thin. After all, if you are to be Consort here, then Zachary will also be required of the same duty in Genovia.”

He took the book from her with a frown. Shit. He hadn’t even thought of that.

Rosalind looked up at him a little sadly, “I don’t mean to be difficult, you know? I was once young and in love and thought everything was possible. This is what I mean when I believe that you are in haste. Your decisions now decide a great many things for everyone around you. They say fools rush in where angels fear to tread, yes?” 

With that, she left him, seeing herself out. Chris collapsed onto the sofa with the infernal novel in hand as the doors closed behind her. 

Were they rushing all this? He knew part of it was tradition, the expectation of royalty to marry and continue the lineage and the fear that if Zach didn’t choose, someone else would do it for him, even though that wasn’t how it worked anymore. Maybe it would be different for them, but Rosalind had even stressed the need for heirs to be produced. That wouldn’t be any different in Genovia than in Denmark; both countries were in the midst of hereditary crises. In any other life, they’d date for awhile. Years, probably. They may not ever get married, it wasn’t a requirement, even now that it was a possibility.

Chris was only twenty-two. If he’d been pressed to make a lifetime agenda even a month ago, marriage would’ve come dead last of things he wanted to do with his life. Someday, sure, he even wanted kids, but right now?

He sighed at the pile of books, setting with them the novel that had been a bane without Zach’s help, and ultimately ignored it all for changing his clothes and escaping to the gym. He needed to turn his brain off for awhile.

 

+

 

His reprieve didn’t last for long. Soren brought him back to his rooms to get fed and showered before Karl and his team of wolves attacked: plucking, trimming, steaming and sewing him into not the tuxedo from his own ball, but an entirely new one Karl was going on and on about.

“Assam silk for the waistcoat, Highness, dyed and embroidered special to match those amazing baby blues,” he said as he stitched something at the waist by hand. “It’s warmer too, in this woeful freeze. It’s like the Fjordlands out there. My fjords, other side of the world. I guess they have ‘em up here too, minus the kiwis and kakapos.”

“Great,” Chris muttered. He was already sweating and itching to tug at the perfect bow tie under his collar.

As he was helped into the tailcoat, the doors of his room were opened wide and Zach strode in, also mostly dressed, with his own team of people still hovering around him, carefully smoothing creases or arranging the many medals on his sash.

“Look at you,” he beamed as he gave Chris a once-over, turning to Karl, “Your stylist does excellent work.”

“To my immense pleasure, Your Majesty,” Karl simpered, bowing with a flourish, “Of course, with such a canvas to work with, you know. Could throw a pair of baggy overalls on this one and he’d make all the fashion lines rethink Train Conductor Chic.”

Zach laughed out loud, sliding a finger along Chris’ lapel, “Oh god, no, let’s just… let’s just stick to white tie for now.”

“Oh my giddy aunt!” Karl cooed at them, crossing both hands over his heart, “You two look a pair, don’t you just? If I wasn’t tied down in Genovia, I’d want to come up here to dress you both for everything. Michael wouldn’t go for it, though. Doesn’t do well in a chill.”

“Michael?” Chris asked.

“My better half. You know him, silly,” Karl flapped a hand at him. “Well, you know him with the shades on, anyway. Better not know him any friendlier; seems to be a bit of a thing, royals and security mingling.”

“Wait, _Shades_?” he gawked, “Shades is your—”

“I know, right?” Karl grinned, “Seems like such a boring stick in the mud, but he’s soft as a big mushy kitten underneath. Never let that get out, he’d put me in the doghouse and I’m not that fond of poodles.”

Chris met Zach’s eyes with incredulousness, who just shook his head in amused confusion. 

As their dressers declared them finished and melted away, Zach gestured a waiting servant forward with a box. “I have something for you,” he said lowly, opening it to reveal a decorated golden necklace. “Of course, there will have to be a formal ceremony, but I want to see you wear it tonight. I want people to see it on you, since your glove will cover…”

He lifted it from its velvet lining. Close up, it was made of linked golden elephants and towers with blue inlay, with a larger, white enameled elephant pendant in the middle. Chris had seen it before, a detail in dozens of portraits of Danish royalty around the palace. In fact, an identical one hung around Zach’s neck now.

Zach moved behind him to fasten it, layering it over the wide ribbon of his Genovian medal. “The Order of the Elephant, awarded to all Danish royalty… and their spouses,” he rested his hands on Chris’ shoulders to turn him to the mirror.

Chris touched the little pendant where it hung neatly above his pear insignia. 

“There,” Zach said, wrapped his arms around him, grinning over his shoulder at their reflections, “Razz’ll have a fit.”

Chris huffed at that. “Why do you provoke her?”

“I don’t know,” Zach pressed his nose into the hair behind Chris’s ear, “Because I always have, I guess, even without trying sometimes.” He came around to face him again, pocketing his hands, brows pinched, “Because she disapproves… and I want her approval as much as anyone’s.”

Chris touched the plethora of medals and bars fastened to Zach’s sash, marks of his status as head of everything, like he would be when he became King of Genovia. Head of everything, where the buck stopped. He was unsure of how he felt about anything now.

“Your Majesty, Your Highness,” Anton approached to tell them, “if you’re ready, the cars are waiting to depart for Christiansborg.” It made Chris remember all the other people who had just been there, retreating to their clean up and pretending not to surreptitiously watch their exchange, all except for Karl, who shrugged away the tender look on his face with a clearing of his throat. 

“Ready?” Zach asked, offering him a teasingly formal elbow.

Chris took a deep breath and nodded.

 

+

 

Christiansborg Palace was even more grand on the inside, the areas still in use for royal functions retaining their original baroque decor. Gold filigree and marble columns adorned the massive doorways with floors of marble and carpets like velvet. Chris hadn’t really looked at it so closely during the King’s wake, as worried as he was for Zach, but now it was almost a welcome distraction to lose himself in the details instead of the inside of his own head.

The Coronation Ball began much as Chris’ own had. Zach was grandly announced into the main ballroom on his own, followed by Queen Rosalind to polite applause, and then the musical arrangement began and people quickly grouped off with glasses of champagne or wine to discuss whatever needed discussing, each taking a turn to congratulate Zach, ask informally for a patronage, or whatever other elbow rubbing was necessary to secure good graces.

“Well, Your Majesty,” Aunt Clarisse broke the monotony to remind him with a smile and a wink, “A ball cannot properly begin until the honoree leads the first dance, hm?”

Zach beamed at Chris. “Come on,” he insisted, taking his hand.

“Zach,” Chris tried to protest as he was ushered toward the floor in front of the musical arrangement, other people clearing to make way for the King. “I don’t… I only learned the one dance, the dumb Wango-thing.”

“Fine, let’s Wango,” Zach grinned as he took the first few steps, “You lead. That’ll get them talking.”

Chris looked briefly to their feet, trying to center himself and find the rhythm, acutely aware of all eyes in the room.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he looked back up to find Zach frowning at him for the first time.

“You don’t look happy.”

“No, just…” he tried to cover his unease, “I dunno that I’ll ever get used to this part.”

Breathing a laugh, Zach smiled, “They’re all watching us. Same assholes as before, watching you and me, scandalously dancing together. Maybe the one’s who are appalled will just fuck off now so I know who never to invite again. Anton can keep a list.”

Chris exhaled, too aware of his stupid feet making missteps. “That doesn’t really help.”

“Forget them, then,” Zach’s hand left his back to lift his chin up and pull him closer and less formal, his voice low and alluring, “Remember dancing in that club, both of us in the dark, completely anonymous? No one knew us, and you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on. You still are. You’re the only person I see in this room.”

Chris’ heart fluttered, cheeks going warm. He mustered up a smile, making Zach grin all the wider. This was his night and he was on the top of the world, a King before all his peers, doing what he truly wanted and being himself.

He kept Chris by his side for much of the first several hours, making rounds with absolutely no attempt to hide his adoration, arm in arm or with his hand on Chris’ lower back. He watched him try not to fumble speaking to other kings, queens and diplomats with pride and dispelled any hint of self-deprecation with compliments on Chris intelligence and wit. And this time, not one of the other guests treated him like he shouldn’t be there. At least not to his face.

Somehow they did eventually separate, Chris having turned for a moment to confirm something Aunt Clarisse had mentioned while Zach was speaking to another group around them. When he next looked around, Zach was several feet away, sending him a smile and a wink.

It was exhausting, just as it had been the first time, trying to follow along with continental politics he didn’t have any grasp of and trying not to look like an idiot, and he soon began to seek a way out, a bathroom break, anything. Some elderly lady was expounding to him woefully about how things were so different in her day, a precarious glass of champagne in her bejeweled hand.

It arrived in the form of Soren, dressed in his own fancy attire as were the rest of the staff. He lingered by a set of doors, discreetly meeting his eyes and lifting his chin. He pardoned himself almost desperately away, muttering with relief as he finally made his way over, “Thanks for the assist, man.”

“Of course, sir,” Soren said, ushering him through the doorway and holding out a cellphone that Chris recognized as his own, “However, there is a call on your personal line, a young gentleman asking about Viking ships. He has rung several times in the last hour. He’s quite persistent.”

Chris took it, frowning. “Luca?”

“Yes, sir. There is a quiet area just through here.” He was led to a small drawing room nearby.

On the phone, Luca sounded bright and snuffly. “Hi Uncle Chris! Whatcha doin'?”

“I’m, uh… uh. What time is it?” he looked for a clock, trying to count the hours backwards, “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“I’m sick!” Luca said, “Mommy is, too. We’re all full of snot.”

“Uh-huh. Did you ask if you could use the phone?”

“No, but Mommy’s sleeping,” Luca said, “Uncle Chris, are you in Denmark with Zach? Did you see a real Viking ship? Did you go with him to meet the Tooth Fairy?”

Chris huffed, “Lu, how do you know that?”

“‘Cuz Mommy said so,” Luca sniveled again, “And ‘cuz we saw you on the TV—you’re famous like Pop Pop! Hey, Uncle Chris, Mommy said that old lady really is a real queen. And Zach is a real Viking King! The TV said!”

“Yeah, I know,” Chris closed his eyes, trying to organize his thoughts, “What else did she tell you?”

“She said we shouldn’t keep secrets anymore,” Luca went on, “She said you might move to Genover to do a real important job. Will Zach be there? Is Genover next door to Denmark so you can be best friends? Can I come and live with you in a castle and be a knight?”

There was a disturbance over the line, Luca’s muffled excuses of being caught, a shuffling noise and then his sister’s voice. “Chris?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed.

She exhaled in annoyance, “He must have taken my phone when I was asleep,” she sniveled and moaned, “This damn cold. I’m sorry. ”

“It’s fine,” he said, “How’s things?”

“I should be asking you that, baby bro.”

He glanced at the door where Soren was standing guard just out of the threshold, “It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” she sniffed. “So what should I tell my kid?”

“I don’t know,” Chris sighed, “But don’t lie to him. Tell him… Tell him I’ll explain everything when I see him again. Okay?”

He heard her sigh down the line. “Chris, be careful, okay? Don’t do anything you aren’t ready for. Remember what Dad said.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I… Kay, I’m sorry I’m putting you guys through this.”

“Don’t be,” she answered, “We just want you to be happy, you know that’s what’s most important. And… you seem like maybe you are? With Zach?”

“I… uh,” he had no idea what to say, before whispering truthfully, “I’m scared, Kay. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“It’s okay, you know,” she said. “Do whatever you think is right. You always do, Princess.”

“Shush,” he huffed, looking up at a voice from the hall and then Zach in the doorway. “I gotta go.”

He hung up swiftly as Zach entered the room with a grin, “Found you. Trying to slip away before midnight?”

Chris glanced down at the phone, slipping it into his pocket.

“Home? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, standing. “Luca… he got a hold of my sister’s phone, I guess.”

“He’s such a great kid,” Zach said, pulling the door closed with a meaningful look at Soren and then crowding Chris against a table, “C’mere. I’ve been dying to kiss you all night.”

Chris indulged him, tipping his face up for the kiss that Zach deepened with a low moan, his hands slipping under his tailcoat and around his waist. His thoughts ping-ponged back and forth between Zach’s warm, confident mouth and the mass of judgey people just a room over, between suggestive fingers and the morning’s revelations. Nuzzling at his neck and obviously holding back his teeth, Zach’s hands slid down to find his own, tugging the white gloves off to look at the ring on his finger once again. Every sight of it seemed to bring amazement to his face.

“We’re going to get married,” Zach breathed as he wound their fingers together, “You and me against all that bullshit in there.”

Chris sighed heavily, “Zach.”

“We’re going to change the whole world together, baby,” he kept on, excitement clear in his voice, seeking Chris’ lips again. 

“Genovia needs me,” he tried. “Just like Denmark needs you.”

“Of course it does,” Zach told him with a laugh. “We’ll do it together.”

“No, Zach,” Chris shook his head, breaking free of the cage Zach had made against the table. This was the way it had to be, he finally realized. “It’s too much for either of us. It’s too much for anyone. It won’t work.”

“But we’ll make it work,” Zach said defiantly, the elation on his face falling to confusion, “It doesn’t matter what the rules are, I’ll change them, I’ll make them deal with it.”

“Zach,” Chris said, “That’s not the way it works. With you here and me there—”

“We’ll visit,” Zach implored. “We’ll call. We can—”

“Would it be enough?” he asked, “Just calling each other at night, not seeing each other for weeks? They’re going to want us to have kids—”

“We don’t have to do that right away—”

“But we will,” Chris pressed on, raking a hand through his hair and probably mussing it up, “Do you really want to raise them like that? Constantly shuffling them back and forth?”

“We’ll have plenty of help—”

“Nannies, Zach? Like you had?” Chris pushed his point, all the things he’d feared about the future bubbling to a head now, “Do you want your kids to grow up like you did, never seeing them because you’re too busy, shipping them off to boarding school and giving the dog away because it’s a burden? How long has it been since you even spoke to your mom?”

Thunder descended over Zach’s face, and Chris knew he’d struck a nerve. “How dare you,” his voice barely held back his volatile temper, “You accuse me of lying, but you came to me last night, you said you wanted this. You said you wanted all of this, that we’ll do it together. You told me you loved me.”

“I did. Zach, I did, _I do_. But it’s too much. It’s too much for anybody to be in both places at once. If I had a choice…” he winced apologetically, pressing fingers to his brow, taking a few searching steps around in a lost circle before turning back, “This is on my family, and I can’t… Luca’s next after me. And he already thinks this is all magic, that you’re the King of the Vikings, and you know the Tooth Fairy and Thor and The Wizard of Oz, probably.” He shook his head again, his voice breaking, “It’s got to be me, not him. I have to do this. I have to. It’s not about us anymore, Zach. We don’t get to be selfish about this.”

Zach’s pained expression belied an answer, this man who was so used to getting his own way, however far he’d come in the last few months. His brows tightened, lips tight together as his glassy eyes fell. “I can’t make you stay, can I?” his voice wavering, “I can’t make you choose me.”

Chris squeezed his eyes shut against his own tears and the anguish sticking his throat. He wanted to be selfish, he wanted it so badly, but there wasn’t a choice. If Zach didn’t get one, then he shouldn’t either. He struggled with his own wobbly words, “It’ll be better this way. If we don’t… drag it out.”

Zach gave a heartbreaking sniffle, his chin quivering, but then he straightened with a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. You’re always right, Chris. It’s your family, and I know… I know you’d do anything you had to for them.” He tried for a brave chuckle that left his throat as a sob. “Keeping me down to earth, as usual.”

Wiping his own eyes, Chris wriggled the ring off his finger to hold it out. “Maybe someday you’ll meet someone who really deserves this.”

“No,” Zach shook his head, taking the ring and squeezing it in his palm. He hesitated before hooking the other around Chris’ neck, pulling him close again to whisper, “I’ll never love anyone like you.”

Chris couldn’t make himself say it back, the words would break his resolve. But he allowed himself to bury his nose in the crook of Zach’s neck one last time, inhaling and feeling him do the same. Zach squeezed him painfully hard, and he forced himself to pull away, sniffling as he looked at soft, swimming brown eyes. “We’ll see each other sometimes. We’ll have to, I guess.”

He tried to imagine seeing Zach at events, state dinners or stupid balls like this one, many years from now. Maybe after a few years apart, the pain of this would fade, and they could just be friends, colleagues, or whatever it was kings of different countries considered each other. Certainly never enemies.

Chris took another deep breath, trying to steady himself as he stepped back farther, desperately trying to keep it together for the good of them both, “You’re going to be a great king, Zach. You don’t need me for that. You always had it in you.”

“You are the definitive authority on good kings,” Zach tried for a damp smile. “Tell Luca… Tell Luca, the King of Vikings said to be good.”

Chris gave a pained sound as he took another step backward for the door. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not,” Zach whispered.

Chris fled, pulling open the door and heading down the hall, away from the ballroom.

“Sir,” he heard Soren’s voice a step behind him, trotting to keep up.

“Back to Amalienborg, Soren,” he said gruffly. “And then take me to the airport.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t. Just… just go.”

 

 

_A month later…_

 

Zach strode tiredly through the lower halls from the garage. Even the warmth of an early spring did little for his mood, loosening his tie as Anton kept a running dialogue of his afternoon behind him. At least it was a Friday.

“At 4 o’clock you will take a phone call from the CEO of DanmarkHjaelper, thanking you for your support in the refugee crisis. You will have a video conference with the heads of Middelgrunden Wind Farm at 4:30, dinner following,” Anton rattled off. “The evening is free, but I would remind you that your mother has requested a personal call for the past two weeks. Her exact words to me this afternoon were, ‘Schedule it as business if you must, and tell him he’d better believe his business is my business’.” 

Zach let out a snort, “How nice of her to finally give a fuck.”

Anton expounded, “She is aware via the media reports that Prince Christopher is no longer in Denmark, sir.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll call her,” he said with annoyance.

A messenger had approached, passively awaiting acknowledgement. At a nod, he bowed and said, “The Queen requests an audience in her apartments, Your Majesty.”

Zach frowned. He’d seen hardly any of Razz since the Coronation Ball, and he’d assumed she had her own business to attend or wanted space. It wasn’t as if they regularly sought each other out.

He paused as the messenger stepped away, putting a hand on Anton’s shoulder, “Hey, why don’t you take the rest of the evening off?”

“Sir, you will still have–”

“I’m a big boy, I can handle a couple of calls on my own,” Zach said, smiling at his valet and friend. “It’s a weekend, Anton, take some time. Longer, if you want. Maybe go visit that girl you met. Soren can babysit me for a while.”

Anton acquiesced with a shuffle of his feet and a glance at the waiting messenger. “Don’t forget to call your mom.”

“Yeah,” Zach nodded, fixing him with a look. “I’ll call mine if you call yours?”

Anton’s eyes widened a little, but then he nodded.

Zach ruffled his curls affectionately, “Get out of here. Have fun.”

“Behave yourself,” Anton returned, ducking away.

Zach made sure the kid walked off, and then gestured the messenger to lead on, following him through the tunnels to the Queen’s palace.

Rosalind was misting her orchids as he walked in to her rooms, examining blooms and plucking away those that had shriveled.

“They’re lovely,” he offered. 

“Yes, they are,” she agreed, touching one more bloom like she was stroking a favored pet.

“Chris’ mother grew them,” he said in effort to make casual conversation, but the memory brought with it the familiar stab of longing. “In a little greenhouse in their backyard in LA. He grew up helping her care for plants like these.”

She stilled, unreadable before setting the mister down and turning, pressing her fingers together and avoiding his eyes. “You have been King for over a month now.”

Zach looked down at the persian rug deferentially, “Yes.”

“Of course, there is not so much for you to do.” 

Since the sessions of Parliament had resumed, he had been doing his expected duties; attending meetings, signing off on documents, making appearances and calls. The comment seemed designed to needle at some perceived inadequacy he knew to be untrue, so he ignored it.

She paused, uncharacteristically hesitant. “I have spoken to my family’s estate regarding my return to Oslo.”

“You’re leaving?” he blurted, surprised.

She cut cold eyes to him, “You have not yet given me permission.”

“I was unaware I had to,” he frowned. No one had told him otherwise. Granted, he was new at this, but generally his people were quick to inform him if he was missing something important.

“I no longer have a position here,” she gestured with some exasperation like it should have been obvious, wrapping her arms around herself in her cardigan. “I am not Queen anymore. I am of no use to Denmark, or anyone—” Her voice cracked, and Zach hurriedly stepped forward to catch his normally unflappable aunt as she crumpled to tears against his chest. 

All this time, he’d thought she hadn’t needed nor wanted anything from him. He had never even considered that with the death of her son and husband, she had lost everything she’d built her whole life around, things she loved. Haraald was always going to cede the throne in one way or another, but it had long been expected that their son would replace him, not Zach. And while he’d spent the time engrossed in Chris, she’d been left entirely alone in her grief and misery.

He fished out a handkerchief for her and she quickly dabbed her eyes, pushing him away to straighten and collect herself, ever the steadfast ice queen. 

He grasped for something to say. As cold and uncaring as she always projected herself, even in the slight lilt of her accent that she’d never quite thrown off, she had always been the Queen to him. And frankly, there wouldn’t be another during his reign. He couldn’t imagine Denmark without her in it. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Oh please, Zachary,” she said, nearly her usual self, “Don’t dredge up any false sentiment for me. You and I have never been close.”

“No, but we could be,” he tried, and when she glared skeptically back, and he smiled, “You could stay. I never revoked your title. You’re still the Queen Mother of Denmark.”

She barked a humorless laugh, sitting in an armchair, “Really, I am no one’s mother now. Certainly not yours.”

“Of course not,” he replied with chagrin, sitting opposite on the settee, “How would you have raised the likes of me? I remember when you spanked me for breaking a teacup, on a visit here when I was seven.”

“Yes, and then you took another and smashed it to the floor, so righteous you were in your rage. Three hundred-year-old china given to this Crown by the last Qing Empress,” she gave a laugh in her throat and then sobered, “You were so moody a boy.”

“I had reasons,” he countered. His father had died that year, and his mother might as well have buried them both for all the comfort and attention she gave him thereafter.

She sighed heavily, holding the silken kerchief to her mouth in thought, “Edvard was no picnic either.”

“He was a good man. A good friend,” Zach murmured, face falling. “I have a lot to live up to.”

She didn’t disagree, and in that, he had his decision. “I don’t want you to go,” he repeated with resolve. “I was hoping you would stay, as an advisor.”

She raised her brows in surprise, “And you would listen to my advice?”

“I would listen, I may not always agree,” he allowed. “The people respect you. I’m not blind, I’ve seen the media reports. They don’t know me, not in any good way. If I’m going to do this right, I need all the help I can get.”

Rosalind’s face softened, thinking, “Of all the ideas, I would not have expected…”

“It was Chris, actually. He suggested it.”

She gave a resigned sigh, one he was coming to recognize. “This… young American boy—”

“Chris, Razz. Please use his name.”

She eyed him before conceding, “Christopher. He is quite intelligent.”

“Yes,” Zach smiled.

“How did you meet him?”

Zach dropped his gaze to his hands, sheepishly. “He punched me for being drunk and inappropriate outside the university dorms. And later, he read me the Riot Act for slacking off in a shared class.”

Rosalind smirked, “I assume you deserved it.”

“I did,” Zach grinned, “On both counts.”

“And then?”

“We got to be friends, I guess?” he shrugged, “He didn’t take any of my shit for the sake of my royal ego. It was…”

“Refreshing?”

“Yes,” Zach laughed down at his hands. “Exciting. Attractive.”

“But now he has a kingdom of his own,” she said, “And he seems, for someone not raised to it, uncommonly well-suited. He cares about doing what is right. What is best.”

Zach nodded somberly.

“Would you take that from him, from Genovia, to suit your own desires?”

Giving a small headshake, Zach felt bereft. “He made his choice. I just want him to be happy.”

“Then would you forfeit your own throne to be with him, in his kingdom, to be happy? That is also a choice.”

“And leave Denmark to Nestor?” Zach rejected the possibility outright. Nestor was a barely tolerable man whose only ruling ambitions were, apparently, the medieval warmongering sort via his beloved Xbox and making bizarre public statements on social media every few months to remind people he existed. As much as Zach had never wanted this job, he had enough loyalty not to leave it to total incompetence. “I can’t do that.”

“Perhaps you do have the makings of a king. It can be a lonely life, this business,” Rosalind said quietly, meeting his questioning gaze. “Not all fairytales have a happy ending.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Pinto de Mayo! At long last, I will post the final chapter on Saturday! Can't leave you all hanging too long! *runs from pitchforks*


	12. At Last I See The Light

The Berkeley quad was filled with sunshine and excitement, black robes and laughter as the graduating class took photos and celebrated with family and friends and teachers. For Chris, it was bittersweet.

He finished his Literature BA with a 3.75 grade point average, which was higher than he’d expected and would have looked decent to the Doctoral Committee. Probably. But none of that mattered anymore.

Instead, he was looking at starting right over, studying Political Science, maybe at a European university this time. After all, he couldn’t lead a small nation without a working knowledge of government, no matter how many advisors they supplied him with. He had plenty of options: Oxford, Cambridge, or maybe a university in Turin or Nice or Grenoble, for closer proximity to Genovia. 

He did not pore over descriptions and photos and glowing alumni testimonials for the University of Copenhagen. He did not daydream about days of studying in that beautiful library, with kisses to the back of his neck, of Zach sweeping him off to dinner and then bed, making his research go that much slower, making him care a little less about his supposed timeline. Repeatedly. Piningly. He couldn’t go that route.

When he’d told Dr. Greenwood about his decision, his advisor had pressed his lips together.

“This isn’t what you want,” Bruce had said. It wasn’t another question, another advisor’s double-check. After four years, he knew Chris pretty damn well.

“I have to do what’s best for everyone,” he’d muttered in answer.

“What about what’s best for you? Are you really going to give up your own life for other people’s sake?” Bruce had leaned forward over his desk, “Chris, in the original fairytale, the mermaid throws herself with her human legs into the sea and drowns in despair and regret. Sometimes, just _sometimes_ , the Disney version might be the better one.”

But it wouldn’t be like the Disney version either. No one was going to die. There just wasn’t going to be a happy fluffy love story, an ever after, the boat wasn’t going to sail off, the prince didn’t rescue anyone. That’s just the way it was. Fantasy stories ended that way. Real life didn’t.

Now he was here in the green of the quad with all his smiling classmates, diploma in hand, and he should be thrilled and happy to have finished.

“Boys, get together, I want another picture of just the two of you!” his mom called out.

He and Cho posed for numerous shots with each other, the sun so warm that Chris unzipped his robes to his suit beneath and parked his mortarboard on Luca’s head once the photos were done.

After making nice with a few people he’d more than likely never see again, he turned around to look for his family again, and was only a little bit surprised to find another addition to it.

“Oh Christopher, my dear!” she came forward for her usual air-kisses to his cheeks, “I am so proud of you!”

“Thanks, Aunt Clarisse.”

“You looked so smart and handsome up there,” she fussed over his suit, then gestured to someone behind her, “I have someone you ought to have met at your Proclamation, dear, I’m not sure if you did.”

“We did meet, Grandma. Maybe in a roundabout way.” 

She looked a bit different in a smart pink dress and jacket, this time with her hair down around her shoulders, but the same large brown eyes; it was the pretty girl from his ball so many months ago.

“Yes, I remember. It’s Mia, right? Just Mia.” Chris acknowledged, smiling at her. Then he did a double-take as she and Aunt Clarisse exchanged a secret look, and he finally made the obvious connection. “Mia. _Amelia_. Shit, you were—oh my god.”

“Hey,” she put a hand out to forestall him, “It’s no biggie. I’m still just Mia, remember?” She looped her arm in his elbow. “Walk with me?”

He followed blankly, feeling stupid and out of his depth with two left feet yet again.

“I thought about going here before Stanford accepted me,” she told him, looking around the quad, “My best friend Lilly did, though.”

“Lilly,” Chris pondered, “Lilly Moscovitz?”

“Yeah! You know her?”

“Yeah, we were in Existential Philosophy together last year. I haven’t seen her in a while, actually.”

“Oh, she graduated early. She’s doing her PhD at Brown now.”

“That’s no surprise, she’s smart as hell.”

“Yeah, she really is.”

They walked in silence for a bit, and Chris prompted, “So.”

“So,” she parroted, “I know things have been kind of too real, lately.”

Chris snorted, “I guess. In a weird, totally not entrenched in any normal reality sort of way.”

“Been there, done that,” she laughed.

“I don’t know,” he said, thinking back, “I feel like most of it was a dream. One that didn’t end with any ride off into the sunset or—”

“A prince kissing his princess?” she smiled, and he blinked at her warily. She made a face. “Geez, ew, you’re like my cousin. But,” she took a deep breath, “I saw something a few months ago that made me realize, maybe I took the wrong path after all.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Was there a witch’s cottage?” She looked blank, and he elaborated, “There’s always a witch’s cottage down the wrong path in the woods, you know, and it’s all warm and inviting and there’s candy to lure in the little… never mind.”

“Not exactly,” she hedged. “But, what I did see was people trying to do the right thing for everyone else, but the wrong thing for themselves. And I realized, maybe I was doing the same thing. The wrong thing for me.”

“Okay,” Chris wasn’t sure what she’s getting at. “What was that, exactly? If I can ask.”

She looked out along the green lawns and milling graduates. “There’s this idea out there that a princess must always have a prince. Or want one. Or never be a whole person without one. There are even countries that have archaic laws on the books that say so. And you know what?” she looked back up at him. “I think I’ve figured out that isn’t always the case.”

He considered for a minute. There were all sorts of reasons why that was the case in a monarchy, the need for blood succession and all that. But modern times meant marriage wasn’t always absolutely necessary anymore. Hell, if he and Zach had ever—he cut that line of thought off. It didn’t do any good to imagine things that would never become a reality. “I suppose. I wouldn’t judge if you did, though. Want someone.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t either,” she insisted, stopping to face him. “How do you feel about it? About Genovia?”

He sighed, looking away. “I… I like it. It’s simple and the people are great. It’s maybe a little old-fashioned, but…”

“You like it,” she confirmed, “But you don’t love it.”

He frowned down at her, perplexed by the distinction.

“Grandma says you have the soul of a teacher, that you really wanted to be a professor and study fairytales. That’s what you love.”

“I… I did.”

She nodded, “Then do you really, truly want to be King of Genovia? There’s nothing else at all that you would choose to do?”

He searched her eyes; big, warm and brown, remarkably like… He swallowed and dropped his gaze to his shoes, starting to shake his head, “Mia—”

“Because if you don’t,” she said, “You’re totally off the hook.”

He snapped up to her eyes again. “What?”

“I’m coming back,” she drew herself up proudly. “Barring any… _challengers_ … to the throne, Grandma is willing to rescind my abdication.”

“Seriously?”

“For realzies.”

“So you’re…” he darted his tongue across his lips, “You’re Princess Amelia, again.”

She spread her hands, “Yup.”

“Oh thank god!” he grinned with relief, picking her up in a bear hug and spinning her around. 

She laughed as he set her down, clearing her throat, and he looked around, quickly making note of Joe holding back a younger, far more concerned guard by the collar of his jacket. Chris sent the men an apologetic wince, to which Joe simply shook his head with a wave.

“Relax, Joe knows you’re cool,” she told him jovially. “So now that’s out of the way, I was kind of hoping we might get more than one happily ever after out of this.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, wondering where this could possibly go from here. She merely directed his attention around to another stand of the old trees in the bustling quad, sheltering someone that made Chris’ breath catch in his throat.

Leaning casually against an aged tree trunk was Zach, hands pocketed and ankles crossed, immaculate and dashing in suit-and-tie.

“ _It belongs to the imperfection of everything human that man can only attain his desire by passing through its opposite_.” Zach pushed off from the tree to stride up to him.

“Ugh,” Chris shook his head, responding with no bite behind his words, “I really need to make you read Sartre.”

The smugness left Zach’s face for utter tenderness, “God, I’ve missed you.”

Swallowing, Chris looked down at the short grass between them. Truth be told, he’d missed Zach too. Desperately. He’d finished his last semester feeling like something was missing, like there was a huge empty void lurking in front of every step. Working at the Bite, he would look for Zach fighting with the mop bucket or cleaning the grease trap or some other disgusting task unbefitting of royalty. He’d be studying in the library and remember the tangle of their fingers under the table. Even with the paps continuing to follow him around, he always imagined Zach beside him, telling him to just keep his head down and let it be, get to where he was going. 

He’d spent so long imagining Zach that facing him now, in the flesh, was almost unreal. But just off the green was Soren, who smiled at Chris with a respectful nod, and Anton, who grinned widely and waved. “So, you came to graduation,” he said. It was a coward’s response.

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss everything you’ve worked so hard for,” Zach replied with a twitch to his lips. “You taught me a lot without that degree, Professor. Despite my numerous attempts to distract you.” 

Chris shook his head, unsure what to say. He couldn’t wrap his head around all that was happening, but being a professor… he’d all but given up on that dream.

Zach glanced over Chris’ shoulder to where Mia had melted away to stand with Aunt Clarisse. “I heard a rumor that you might not have a terribly pressing obligation any longer.”

“You heard that, huh?”

“Yes,” Zach chewed his bottom lip, “And, um, I happen to know of an excellent university where a scholarly sort of guy could, maybe, continue his post-graduate studies. Do great research on some very famous authors of fairytales. Maybe even get hands-on in the first editions and manuscripts of various local museums and libraries. With express permissions of the Patron, of course.”

“Oh yeah?” His heart flip-flopped.

Zach set glittering eyes back at him, “Oh, and the off-campus accommodations would be second to none.”

Chris let his smile stretch, “How’s the food?”

“You know,” Zach shuffled his feet, “Pretty standard, really. Lots of sandwiches.”

Chris couldn’t help but drop his eyes again as his emotions see-sawed between hope and fear. Zach’s shoes were polished to a mirror sheen, his cuffs breaking perfectly over them. A strong hand lifted to block his view, two fingertips tenderly bringing his chin back up in a way that was so achingly familiar and had always led to a kiss he couldn’t refuse. He drew a breath in and held it, closing his eyes.

“Chris,” Zach sighed, thumb caressing his chin, “I can hardly ask you to give up your dreams for me. But I wake up every morning from mine, from searching for one I had once. I think you must sleeping, and I wonder if you ever dream of faraway kingdoms and princes and castles anymore. I wake up there every day without you, and I’m lost.”

“You are channeling some def-con one level sap, there, pal,” he muttered with a headshake, though his heart wouldn’t quit thundering in his chest.

“Yeah, well, riding up on my steed and sweeping you off to my palace didn’t work, I’m willing to try anything,” Zach grinned beguilingly, “You have so much going for you. You can do anything you want. I’m probably an asshole for giving you one more thing, but…”

He drew his hand back from Chris’ face to unfold the rest of his fingers. In his palm sat the platinum heirloom ring. “I want you to be happy. I want to see you become a professor, and teach the whole world what I’ve learned from you. I want…” he paused to take a careful breath, “I want the privilege of watching you get there, of having you in my life. If it takes time, or if you want to go to some other school far away to study, then I’ll sit in my tower and wait, my sweet prince. Forever, if you ask me to.”

Chris swallowed as he looked the ring that had once fit his finger. _You don’t have to wear it,_ Zach’s words came back to him, as they did over and over again on lonely nights, _I’ll never love anyone like you._ “Forever is a long time.”

“I’ve learned a surprising amount of patience,” Zach replied. “Sometimes it pays off.”

Chris looked over at his family, all not-so-covertly watching them from a distance. Little Luca threw his mortarboard into the air again and again, with all the care of a six year old, chasing it down when a breeze took it and putting grass stains on his best clothes. Aunt Clarisse stood with Mia, smiling at Joseph, always nearby; his parents stood together, looking proud and content and accepting. There was room, suddenly, to breathe. To think and to consider the best options for everyone, including himself.

“Promise me something,’ he prompted.

“Anything I can give you,” Zach whispered.

“When you get a vacation from running a country, we’ll go somewhere no one knows us—or maybe we’ll just go home, to my parents’. And we’ll go to the grocery store ourselves and watch bad movies and eat pizza and frozen tater tots, and just remember to be regular people sometimes.”

“As you wish.”

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for your wonderful comments and support and PATIENCE with me! I'm so glad to finally give this tale its happy ending! I love you all so much.
> 
> As always, since my little worlds are always continuing in my head, there may be little peeks into this fairytale in the future. ;)


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